“Charlie,” said he, “my wife and I have made up our minds as to the course to be pursued. I shall go to London this afternoon, and bring my daughter and her husband back with me to-morrow.” “The very thing you should do.” “I won’t say that we are not both of us showing very great weakness in forgiving Conny so easily; but she is our only child--and the mother’s heart yearns for her.” “And so does yours.” “I wish it didn’t, I wish I could be severe and obdurate. But we can’t--we oughtn’t to fight against our instincts. The young people must live with us until I can furnish a home for them; and, as for Curling, there is nothing for it but to let him keep his position here. The eyes of the whole town are upon us, and it won’t do to seem ashamed.” “Certainly not. I know what my father would suggest: that we all went about, forthwith, boasting of our new connexion, and appearing so proud, as scarcely to be civil to the poorer neighbours. After all, what is there to be ashamed of? Curling is not ungentlemanly; he is rather mercantile, perhaps; but he is certain to borrow some graces from his wife, and to make as good a figure in society as most young men.” “I’d have given five thousand pounds rather than this should have happened; but as it _has_ happened, we must make the best of it. The first thing to be done is to get them married properly. My wife, I fear, will give us trouble. She talks as if she loathed Curling, and though she professes to be willing to do anything now, I fear that when the time comes she will never consent to be seen with him out of doors, or to prove, by her behaviour, that the marriage is not a disgrace.” “We must reason with her.” “Yes, yes. Sufficient unto the day--this is a contingent evil: we have enough to do to deal with the present. I was so grieved and worried last night, that I totally forgot to ask you about your visit. What do you think of Theresa?” “I like her very much,” I answered, guardedly. “Did they make you welcome?” “They did indeed.” “Do you think my scheme as disagreeable as it struck you a fortnight ago?” he asked, smiling languidly. “We’ll talk about this another time,” I answered, uneasily. “Let us get Conny home, and make her comfortable, before we trouble ourselves with other matters.” “Ay, you are right,” he exclaimed, falling quickly back into the one absorbing trouble, from which he had momentarily diverged. “I can leave you in charge here, can’t I? and I must ask you, after the bank is closed, to go and keep my poor wife company. She will be very dull and depressed during my absence.” “I’ll try to cheer her up,” I said.