“Well, Rhoda, of course I had to think of your interests first—_any_ mother would; but if it’s really quite settled, I must confess that I believe you are well out of it, and I’m rather relieved myself. When I thought of being that man’s mother-in-law I used to be thankful sometimes that your father would retire so soon—which was horrid, dear.” “I can understand your feelings, mummie.” “I’m sure you can, dear: you are always my sympathetic child. _I_ wouldn’t have married him for worlds! I never could imagine how you made up your mind to it in the first place. Now, I suppose that absurd Mrs. St. George will go on with her theory that no daughter of mine will ever marry in India, because the young men find poor old me so amusing!” “She’s a clever woman—Mrs. St. George,” Rhoda observed. “And now that we’ve had our little talk, dear, there’s one thing I should like you to take back—that quotation from Longfellow, or was it Mrs. Hemans?—about a daughter’s heart, you know.” Mrs. Daye inclined her head coaxingly towards the side. “I _shouldn’t_ like to have that to remember between us, dear,” she said, and blew her nose with as close an approach to sentiment as could possibly be achieved in connection with that organ. “You ridiculous old mummie! I assure you it hadn’t the slightest application.” “Then _that’s_ all right,” Mrs. Daye returned, in quite her sprightly manner. “I’ll refuse the St. Georges’ dinner on Friday night; it’s only decent that we should keep rather quiet for a fortnight or so, till it blows over a little. And we shall get rid of you, my dear child, I’m perfectly certain, quite soon enough,” she added over her shoulder, as she rustled out. “With your brains, you might even marry very well at home. But your father is sure to be put out about this—awfully put out!” “Do you know, Buzz,” murmured Rhoda a moment later (the terrier had jumped into her lap), “if I had been left an orphan in my early youth, I fancy I would have borne it better than most people.” CHAPTER XII.