Dora detected the odour of a serious talk in the atmosphere, and she found that something had taken away the awe which such conversations had hitherto inspired. It may have been the season in town, but it was more probably that confidence which comes from the knowledge of the world. There were things in life of which she consciously knew more than her father, and one of these was sorrow. There is nothing that gives so much confidence as the knowledge that the worst possible has happened. It raises one above the petty worries of daily existence. Dora knew that her acquaintance with sorrow was more intimate, more thorough, than that of her father, who sat looking as if the hangman were at the door. She awaited the serious talk with some apprehension, but none of that almost paralysing awe which she had known in childhood. “I am getting an old man,” he said, with supreme egotism, “and you cannot expect to have me with you much longer.” “But I do expect it,” replied Dora cheerfully. “I am sorry to disappoint you, papa, but I do expect it most decidedly.” This rather spoilt the lugubrious gravity of the situation. “Well, thank Heaven! I am a hearty man yet,” admitted the Rector rather more hopefully; “but still you cannot expect to have your parents with you all your life, you know.” “I think it is wiser not to look too far into the future,” replied Dora, warding off. “I should look much more happily into the future,” replied the Rector, with the deliberation of the domestic autocrat, “if I knew that you had a good husband to take care of you.” In a flash of thought Dora traced it all back to Arthur, through Mrs. Agar; and her would-be lover fell still further in her estimation. He seemed to be fated to show himself at every turn the very antitype to her ideal. “Ah,” she laughed, “but suppose I got a bad one? You are always saying that marriage is a lottery, and I don't believe the remark is original. Suppose I drew a blank; fancy being married to a blank! Or I might do worse. I might draw minus something--minus brains, for instance. They are in the lottery, for I have seen them, nicely done up in faultless linen--both blanks and worse.” She turned away towards the window, and the moment her face was averted it changed suddenly. The face that looked out towards the beech-wood, where the shadows were creeping from the darkening east, was piteous, terror-stricken, driven. It is an ever-living question why people--honest, well-meaning parents and others--should be set to ride rough-shod over all that is best and purest in the human mind. The Rector went on, in his calmly self-satisfied voice, with a fatuous ignorance of what he was doing which must have made the very angels wince. “A great many girls,” he said, “have thrown away a chance of happiness merely to serve a passing fancy. Mind you don't do that.” She gave a little laugh, quite natural and easy, but her face was grave, and more.