"Yes. There is a good deal to consider; but it is for Reggie and the girl to consider--not for me." "But surely you, too, Francis!" "Well, then, I have considered." "It is not Reggie alone--but all of us. You must think for all of us, Francis. You always have done. It is not a connection to desire." "I agree with you. The last in the world to desire. But it concerns the pair of them, primarily. He is--he no doubt believes he is--in love with her; and she is, I suppose, in love with him. No one has the right to interfere." "Think how differently you married, Francis! A rich girl of high family." "I did not marry for that. It happened--that was all. I married Marion for the same reason that impels Reggie to marry this girl. I remember how little such things weighed with me in my marriage; how, once having felt the inclination to marry her, I should have married my wife all the same if she had been, say, the daughter of William Day. It is because I remember that I decline any longer to interfere, or to take upon my shoulders any responsibility in this matter." "You are wrong, Francis. Reggie won't thank you for it, later on." "Oh, do I want any one to thank me!" Sir Francis said with sudden, all unusual petulance, turning round on his astonished sister, who jumped in her chair at his tone, instantly repentant. To incur the anger of the head of her house was the thing of which she was most on earth afraid. "Do what you think right, of course, Francis." "Of course I shall do what I think right." He went to his own room, settled himself in his chair by the open window, tore open the morning paper which it was his custom to read there. The window opened upon a long oblong of flower-bordered lawn, enclosed by thick square-cut yew hedges on two sides; at the end a series of glass houses shut out the view. The eyes of Sir Francis strayed from the pages of the newspaper to the sunshine and shadow of the freshly-cut lawn. At the door of one of the greenhouses beyond, Deleah, in her black muslin dress and wide black hat, was standing in conversation with Jarvis, the head-gardener. Part of her duty, he had been told, was to wheedle Jarvis out of the flowers Miss Forcus liked to see in her rooms, but of which he resented the cutting. Sir Francis looked at the pair--they were too far off for him to read their faces, but he know how the girl would be playing her part, smiling shyly, with appealing eyes; how Jarvis was probably denying her, being human, for the mere delight of being asked. Presently the newspaper dropped from his hand, and he passed out into the morning sunshine, and walked down the flagged path dividing the lawn, the mosses growing grey and green between the stones.