He paused and began again, and for a time they argued to no purpose. They generalized about the position of an engaged girl and the rights and privileges of a father. Then Mr. Pope, "to cut all this short," told him frankly he wasn't wanted, his daughter did not want him, nobody wanted him; he was an invader, he had to be got rid of--"if possible by peaceful means." Trafford disputed these propositions, and asked to see Marjorie. Mr. Pope had been leading up to this, and at once closed with that request. "She is as anxious as any one to end this intolerable siege," he said. He went to the door and called for Marjorie, who appeared with conspicuous promptitude. She was in a dress of green linen that made her seem very cool as well as very dignified to Trafford; she was tense with restrained excitement, and either--for these things shade into each other--entirely without a disposition to act her part or acting with consummate ability. Trafford rose at the sight of her, and remained standing. Mr. Pope closed the door and walked back to the desk. "Mr. Trafford has to be told," he said, "that you don't want him in Buryhamstreet." He arrested Marjorie's forward movement towards Trafford by a gesture of the hand, seated himself, and resumed his drumming on the table. "Well?" he said. "I don't think you ought to stay in Buryhamstreet, Mr. Trafford," said Marjorie. "You don't want me to?" "It will only cause trouble--and scenes." "You want me to go?" "Away from here." "You really mean that?" Marjorie did not answer for a little time; she seemed to be weighing the exact force of all she was going to say. "Mr. Trafford," she answered, "everything I've ever said to you--everything--I've _meant_, more than I've ever meant anything. Everything!" A little flush of colour came into Trafford's cheeks. He regarded Marjorie with a brightening eye. "Oh well," he said, "I don't understand. But I'm entirely in your hands, of course." Marjorie's pose and expression altered. For an instant she was a miracle of instinctive expression, she shone at him, she conveyed herself to him, she assured him. Her eyes met his, she stood warmly flushed and quite unconquered--visibly, magnificently _his_. She poured into him just that riotous pride and admiration that gives a man altogether to a woman.... Then it seemed as if a light passed, and she was just an everyday Marjorie standing there. "I'll do anything you want me to," said Trafford. "Then I want you to go." "Ah!" said Mr. Pope. "Yes," said Trafford, with his eyes on her self-possession. "I've promised not to write or send to you, or--think more than I can help of you, until I'm twenty-one--nearly two months from now." "And then?" "I don't know. How can I?" "You hear, sir?" from Mr. Pope, in the pause of mutual scrutiny that followed. "One question," said Mr. Trafford. "You've surely asked enough, sir," said Mr. Pope. "Are you still engaged to Magnet?" "Sir!"