Calladine announced to Mrs. Quince that he was dining at the Manor House. Daisy rejoiced at this piece of news, for ever since her return to Starvecrow she had been nervous lest Lovel and Miss Warrener should meet and Lovel discover that she, Daisy, had in one particular exceeded the truth in her assertions. She hoped,--and would have prayed, but that her superstitious faith feared the possible blasphemy,--that Calladine would no longer delay his avowal, but would return after dinner that night a betrothed man. Indeed, for all she knew, he might be secretly betrothed even now, not merely contemplating betrothal, and she thus have spoken the truth after all, albeit inadvertently to Lovel. Luck had been so much upon her side, that perhaps it might have favoured her also in this instance. Never did lover set out accompanied by more earnest wishes for his success than Calladine that evening accompanied by the wishes of his housemaid. Calladine found Mr. Warrener alone. “I don’t know what has become of Clare,” said the old gentleman after greeting his guest; “it’s unlike her to be late for dinner, especially when she knew you were coming. Perhaps I allow her too much liberty,” he added, peering into Calladine’s face to read whether he found any condemnation therein. “Miss Clare,” said Calladine, speaking gently, for he knew Mr. Warrener’s occasional uneasiness, “is not a young lady whom it would be judicious to confine.” “Um,--wild, you think her?” said Mr. Warrener, rubbing his chin. “Not wild,--only free....” Calladine breathed. “She is a very great responsibility,” said Mr. Warrener, perplexed. Calladine smiled. Who were they, two cultured and scholarly men pacing a lamplit study, to be disposing of the freedom of that airy spirit? But he was gentle to the old man, for in many ways he loved him. “Your safeguard, sir, lies in her trustworthiness.” “A happy word,” said Mr. Warrener, immensely relieved, and they continued to pace the room, talking of other things, until Martha summoned them to dinner. The candles between them, they dined. They spoke the same language, and the suavity that reigned was not only the suavity of the room. Almost, Clare’s absence was a relief; always, her elusiveness was a slight trouble, like a breeze in the room. Even now, she was present in their minds; their eyes flickered towards the door; where was she? dancing after what Will-o’-the-Wisp? She came, more vivacious than Calladine had ever seen her; so lively now, that he thought her feverish, now drooping silent and listless, rousing herself to Mr. Warrener’s “Clare! Clare, you don’t hear what I am saying,” with a startled smile,--Mr. Warrener, in excellent spirits and full of discourse. Calladine watched her covertly, between the candles on the dinner-table. He would speak to her to-night; speak, lest he should lose her for the sake of a fancy. He could not wait, until the garden which she had ordained should be finished.