"I will do whatever you think best." "Thank you: that's very kind of you." He fell into a silence, in which he was able only to wish that he knew what was best, and from which he came to the surface with, "Imogene's family ought to know, of course." "Yes; they put her in my charge. They will have to know. Shall I write to them?" "Why, if you will." "Oh, certainly." "Thank you." He had taken to stroking with his right hand the hand of Imogene which he held in his left, and now he looked round at her with a glance which it was a relief not to have her meet. "And till we can hear from them, I suppose you will let me come to see her?" "You know you have always been welcome here." "Thank you very much." It seemed as if there ought to be something else to say, but Colville could not think of anything except: "We wish to act in every way with your approval, Mrs. Bowen. And I know that you are very particular in some things"--the words, now that they were said, struck him as unfortunate, and even vulgar--"and I shouldn't wish to annoy you--" "Oh, I understand. I think it will be--I have no doubt you will know how to manage all that. It isn't as if you were both--" "Young?" asked Colville. "No; one of us is quite old enough to be thoroughly up in the _convenances_. We are qualified, I'm afraid, as far as that goes," he added bitterly, "to set all Florence an example of correct behaviour." He knew there must be pain in the face which he would not look at; he kept looking at Mrs. Bowen's face, in which certainly there was not much pleasure, either. There was another silence, which became very oppressive before it ended in a question from Mrs. Bowen, who stirred slightly in her chair, and bent forward as if about to rise in asking it. "Shall you wish to consider it an engagement?" Colville felt Imogene's hand tremble in his, but he received no definite prompting from the tremor. "I don't believe I know what you mean." "I mean, till you have heard from Imogene's mother." "I hadn't thought of that. Perhaps under the circumstances--" The tremor died out of the hand he held; it lay lax between his. "What do you say, Imogene?" "I can't say anything. Whatever you think will be right--for me." "I wish to do what will seem right and fair to your mother." "Yes." Colville heaved a hopeless sigh. Then with a deep inward humiliation, he said, "Perhaps if you know Imogene's mother, Mrs. Bowen, you can suggest--advise--You--"