“My daughter is at home,” he said, in answer to Stuart’s inquiry. “But before you see her I should like to speak to you. Is there anywhere where we can go and have a quiet talk?” The request was ominous enough in itself, and the physician’s manner made it more so. Alistair’s heart sank as he answered: “I expect the club would be the best place. We should not find anyone in the card-room at this hour.” He turned and walked silently side by side with the arbiter of his happiness, past the crowd that bustled in front of the Plage, and up the short street that conducted them to the club door. As he went a great despondency settled on him. Without knowing what Sir Bernard meant to say to him, he felt that there was little that he could say for himself. What account of himself could he give that would be considered satisfactory by the father of an only daughter? It was only his mother who had encouraged him to lift his eyes to Hero. He ought to have asked his mother to plead his cause with Hero’s father. Even in his most buoyant moments during the past few weeks he had never felt quite sure of his happiness. A sense of unreality came upon him ever and anon; he had felt like a man dreaming a delicious dream, and dreading the awakening he knows must come. Now the awakening had come, and could not be put off. He found himself seated in the deserted card-room facing Hero’s father across a small green table, on which two packs of used cards and three or four scoring-blocks awaited the return of the bridge-players. The sight of the soiled packs affected him painfully. He knew that this economy was due to the exorbitant French tax, but yet it struck upon him as a note of squalor. The cards themselves were small and badly made, like most things made by Governments. He drew one of the packs towards him, and began shuffling it nervously while he waited for Vanbrugh to speak. Vanbrugh noted the action with a physician’s eye. “I expect you have guessed what I want to speak to you about,” he said quietly. Alistair lifted his eyes from the cards and stole a glance at his questioner, a glance not free from the cunning of his Pictish blood. But he said nothing. “My daughter tells me that you have asked her to become your wife.” For a moment Alistair made no response. Keeping his head down he cut four cards in rapid succession--a club, a spade, a diamond, and then another diamond. He took it as a bad omen. “Has she told you anything more?” he asked. “Only that she had given you her consent.” Vanbrugh hesitated; he found it harder than he had expected to tell this young man the truth about himself. “You will understand naturally,” he began again, “that Hero is my chief interest in life. Her happiness is dearer to me than anything else in the world.” “And to me, too,” Alistair put in swiftly, raising his head and looking Sir Bernard in the face.