The Dean had a great deal to think of as he walked home a little too late for his daughter's usual dinner hour. What should he tell her;--and what should he do as to communicating or not communicating tidings of the day's work to Lord George? Of course everybody must know what had been done sooner or later. He would have had no objection to that,--providing the truth could be told accurately,--except as to the mention of his daughter's name in the same sentence with that abominable word. But the word would surely be known, and the facts would not be told with accuracy unless he told them himself. His only, but his fully sufficient defence was in the word. But who would know the tone? Who would understand the look of the man's eye and the smile on his mouth? Who could be made to conceive, as the Dean himself had conceived, the aggravated injury of the premeditated slander? He would certainly write and tell Lord George everything. But to his daughter he thought that he would tell as little as possible. Might God in his mercy save her ears, her sacred feelings, her pure heart from the wound of that word! He felt that she was dearer to him than ever she had been,--that he would give up deanery and everything if he could save her by doing so. But he felt that if she were to be sacrificed in the contest, he would give up deanery and everything in avenging her. But something must be told to her. He at any rate must remain in town, and it would be very desirable that she should stay with him. If she went alone she would at once be taken to Cross Hall; and he could understand that the recent occurrence would not add to the serenity of her life there. The name that had been applied to her, together with the late folly of which her husband had been guilty, would give those Manor Cross dragons,--as the Dean was apt in his own thoughts to call the Ladies Germain--a tremendous hold over her. And should she be once at Cross Hall he would hardly be able to get her back to the deanery. He hurried up to dress as soon as he reached the house, with a word of apology as to being late, and then found her in the drawing room. "Papa," she said, "I do like Mrs. Montacute Jones." "So do I, my dear, because she is good-humoured." "But she is so good-natured also! She has been here again to-day and wants me and George to go down to Scotland in August. I should so like it." "What will George say?" "Of course he won't go; and of course I shan't. But that doesn't make it the less good-natured. She wishes all her set to think that what happened the other night doesn't mean anything." "I'm afraid he won't consent." "I know he won't. He wouldn't know what to do with himself. He hates a house full of people. And now tell me what the Marquis said." But dinner was announced, and the Dean was not forced to answer this question immediately.