It was spoken rather gravely than severely. Mr. Lord never looked fixedly at his daughter, and even a glance at her face was unusual; but at this juncture he met her eyes for an instant. The nervous motion with which he immediately turned aside had been marked by Nancy on previous occasions, and she had understood it as a sign of his lack of affection for her. ‘I am twenty-three years old, father,’ she replied, without aggressiveness. ‘That would be something of an answer if you were a man,’ observed the father, his eyes cast down. ‘Because I am a woman, you despise me?’ Stephen was startled at this unfamiliar mode of address. He moved uneasily. ‘If I despised you, Nancy, I shouldn’t care very much what you did. I suppose you must do as you like, but you won’t go with my permission.’ There was a silence, then the girl said: ‘I meant to ask Horace to go with us.’ ‘Horace--pooh!’ Again a silence. Mr. Lord laid down his cup, moved a few steps away, and turned back. ‘I didn’t think this kind of thing was in your way,’ he said gruffly. ‘I thought you were above it.’ Nancy defended herself as she had done to Jessica, but without the playfulness. In listening, her father seemed to weigh the merits of the case conscientiously with wrinkled brows. At length he spoke. ‘Horace is no good. But if Samuel Barmby will go with you, I make no objection.’ A movement of annoyance was Nancy’s first reply. She drummed with her fingers on the table, looking fixedly before her. ‘I certainly can’t ask Mr. Barmby to come with us,’ she said, with an effort at self-control. ‘Well, you needn’t. I’ll speak about it myself.’ He waited, and again it chanced that their eyes met. Nancy, on the point of speaking, checked herself. A full minute passed, and Stephen stood waiting patiently. ‘If you insist upon it,’ said Nancy, rising from her chair, ‘we will take Mr. Barmby with us.’ Without comment, Mr. Lord left the room, and his own door closed rather loudly behind him.