Calf-love inspires many an audacity. To Horace there seemed nothing outrageous in this suggestion. He had talked it over with Fanny French several times, and they had agreed that his father could not in decency offer them _less_ than a hundred a year. He began to shake out the ashes from his pipe, with a vague intention of relighting it. ‘You really imagine,’ said his father, ‘that I should give you money to enable you to marry that idiot?’ Evidently he put a severe restraint upon himself. The veins of his temples were congested; his nostrils grew wide; and he spoke rather hoarsely. Horace straightened his back, and, though in great fear, strung himself for conflict. ‘I don’t see--what right--to insult the young lady.’ His father took him up sternly. ‘Young lady? What do you mean by “young lady”? After all your education, haven’t you learnt to distinguish a lady from a dressed-up kitchen wench? _I_ had none of your advantages. There was--there would have been some excuse for _me_, if I had made such a fool of myself. What were you doing all those years at school, if it wasn’t learning the difference between real and sham, getting to understand things better than poor folks’ children? You disappointed me, and a good deal more than I ever told you. I had hoped you would come from school better able to make a place in the world than your father was. I made up my mind long ago that you should never go into my business; you were to be something a good deal better. But after all you couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do what I wanted. Never mind--I said to myself--never mind; at all events, he has learnt to _think_ in a better way than if I had sent him to common schools, and after all that’s the main thing. But here you come to me and talk of marrying a low-bred, low-minded creature, who wouldn’t be good enough for the meanest clerk!’ ‘How do you know that, father? What--what right have you to say such things, without knowing more of her than you do?’ There was a brief silence before Mr. Lord spoke again. ‘You are very young,’ he said, with less vehement contempt. ‘I must remember that. At your age, a lad has a sort of devil in him, that’s always driving him out of the path of common sense, whether he will or no. I’ll try my best to talk quietly with you. Does your sister know what has been going on?’ ‘I daresay she does. I haven’t told her in so many words.’