Captain Fairthorn looked at me with extreme surprise; my idea of his character was that nothing upon or below the earth could surprise him. But he had his glasses on; and these always seem to me to treble the marks of astonishment in the eyes that stand behind them. In deference to his large intellect, and fame, and great (though inactive) nobility of nature, I waited for him to begin, though I am sure—now I come to think of it—that he would have been glad for me to take the move. “Kitty,” he said at last, with some relief at not having to fall upon me yet, “I should like to know a little more of this story. I remember this young man very well. But his name has escaped me for the moment. He will not think me rude. It is one of the many penalties we pay for undue devotion to our own little subjects. If he had been a zoophyte, or a proboscidian, or even one of the constituents—” “If he had been a zoophyte, papa, or anything else with a very big name, and a very little meaning,” Miss Fairthorn exclaimed in reproachful tones, “where should I be now? At the bottom of the Thames. And perhaps you would enjoy dredging for me.” “In spite of all training, she has a temper;” the father addressed this remark to me. “Also she has a deep sense of gratitude—a feeling we find the more largely developed, the further we travel from the human order. But, my dear, you allow yourself vague discursions. In a matter like this you have brought before me, my desire is always to be practical. That great and original investigator, to whom we owe not only knowledge, but what is even more important, the only true course, by which to arrive—” “My dear father, if you once begin on that—the knowledge we want, and a quick course to it, is whether you will be so good and so kind, as to make us both happy by your consent. This gentleman loves me; and I love him. He is not wealthy; but he is good. You may leave me in his care, without a doubt. I have not known him long; but I know him as truly as if we had been brought up together. The only fault he has is that he cannot praise himself. And his reverence for you is so strong and deep, that it makes him more diffident than ever. You are dreadfully diffident yourself, papa, you know you are; and that makes me so despise all boastful people. Now fully understand that I won’t have that horrible old Sir Cumbrous Hotchpot, and I will have this Kit Orchardson; that is to say, with your leave, father. And you owe me something, I should think, after all—but I have no right to speak of that. Only, if you don’t give it, mind, I’ll—I’ll—” As a sample of what she would do, she began to sob deeply; and I caught her in my arms.