‘Well!’ She neither contradicted him nor consented to what he had said, but stood in the fitful moonlight, blown about by the wind, holding her cloak closely round her, and looking at him between the light and gloom. ‘Pardon me,’ he said, ‘I have no right whatever to interfere: but--if you could bend your will to his--if you could humour him as long as his life lasts: your father is becoming an old man. Miss Mountford, you would not need perhaps to make this sacrifice for very long.’ She elapsed her hands with impatient alarm, stopping him abruptly--‘Is my father ill? Is there anything you know of that we do not know?’ ‘Nothing whatever. I only know his age, no more. Could you not yield to him, subdue your will to his? You are young, and you have plenty of time to wait. Believe me, the happiness that will not bear to be waited for is scarcely worth having. I have no right to say a word--I do not understand the circumstances--actually I _know_ nothing about them. But if you could yield to him, humour him for a time----’ ‘Pretend to obey him while he lived,’ Anne said, in a low voice, ‘in order that I may be able to cheat him when he is gone: that is a strange thing to recommend to me.’ ‘There is no question of cheating him. What I mean is, that if you would submit to him; give him the pleasure of feeling himself obeyed in the end of his life----’ ‘I owe my father obedience at all times; but there are surely distinctions. Will you tell me why you say this to me?’ ‘I cannot tell you why: only that there is something going on which will tell against you: sincerely, I do not know what it is. I do not want to counsel you to anything false, and I scarcely know what I am advising you to do. It is only, Miss Mountford, while you can--if you can--to submit to him: or even, if no better can be, _seem_ to submit to him. Submit to him while he lives. This may be a caprice on his part--no more: but at the same time it may affect your whole life.’ Anne stood for a moment irresolute, not knowing what to say. The night favoured her and the dark. She could speak with less embarrassment than if the daylight had been betraying her every look and change of aspect. ‘Mr. Heathcote, I thank you for taking so much interest in me,’ she said. ‘I take the greatest interest in you, Miss Mountford; but in the meantime I would say the same to anyone so young. Things are going on which will injure you for your life. If you can by your submission avert these ills, and make him happier--even for a time?’ ‘In short,’ she said again, ‘pretend to give up until he is no longer here to see whether I follow my own inclinations or his? It may be wise advice, Mr. Heathcote; but is it advice which you would like your--anyone you cared for--to take?’ ‘I should not like anyone I cared for,’ he said hesitating--‘Pardon me, I cannot help offending you--to be in opposition to her family on such a point.’