"Marjolaine is very dear to me," said Madame, defiantly. Lord Otford bowed. "Precisely. I have been considering. Are we justified in keeping these two young people apart?" Madame looked at him in amazement. "Do you say that?" "I do," he smilingly affirmed. "Marjolaine, being her mother’s daughter, must be a charming gel." Madame waved the compliment aside. He went on. "And although Jack is my son, he is a thoroughly good fellow." "But he is contracted to marry—" Madame interrupted. "That is all upset," said Lord Otford; and the curious thing was that he did not seem at all put out. "Carrie Thring has taken the bit between her teeth and eloped with the curate." Madame looked at him sharply. "And your hopes being dashed in that quarter, you come—" "No, you are not fair!" protested Lord Otford. "I think I should have come in any case. Seeing you on Saturday has revived many memories—" "It needed some such shock." Lord Otford winced; but he continued bravely. "I made up my mind not to act my own father over again. If Jack loved your daughter, he was to marry her." "That is no longer the question," said Madame with emphasis. "My daughter refuses to marry your son." "Why? Because she does not love him?" His voice was very grave and very searching. Madame tried to answer. She would have given worlds to have been able to say "Yes." But she could not say it, and she was silent. Lord Otford was watching her keenly. "No!" he said, almost severely. "No; but only because you tell her to refuse. She simply obeys out of habit. You are undertaking a heavy responsibility. Ah! Why punish these children because I behaved like a fool years ago, when I knew no better?" Madame sank on the seat under the elm. Was he right? Had she acted in mere selfishness? Was she breaking Marjolaine’s heart only to gratify something very like spite? Lord Otford leant over her, and now there was a ring of passion in his voice. "And why punish me now, so late? Is it not possible for me to atone—Lucy?" "Lord Otford!" she cried, trying to rise. "Don’t stop me now! Don’t go away!" he entreated, motioning her back. "Ah! we are poor creatures at best! We go blindly past our happiness. Let us hark back, Lucy, and try to find the trail we missed!" "We!" cried Madame. "I." Madame was profoundly stirred. His voice had not changed at all in all those years: just so had he murmured passionate words in the old vicarage garden. She must take care, or she would fall under the spell of it again—and that must not be. She must take care; harden her heart; put on a panoply of steel. "I have been quite happy," she said at last, very defiantly. "I know it," he answered, "and I am glad to know it." "But I purchased my happiness dearly." She turned on him with bitter resentment. "You have never realised the suffering you inflicted on me!" "I can imagine it," he answered, almost voicelessly.