Presently she opened her weary eyes, looked up, and smiled, then snuggled again. He led her to his office chair, and took her on his knee. “Lie here, my bird, make your pillow of my shoulder. That's more comfortable, I hope. Why, Sancie, you've not been here, in my arms, since you hurt your foot at Sidmouth deuce knows how long ago--and I kissed it well! Do you remember that? Ah, but I do. I'm a foolish old chap, with nothing else to think about but my girls. And you're the only one left--the only one, Sancie. And I always loved you best--and behaved as if you were the worst--God forgive me!” She put her hand up and touched his cheek. “Hush, dearest. We don't talk about that.” “No, no, my darling--that's over, thank God. You have forgiven me, I know--my great-hearted Sancie. Now, if you feel stronger, tell me all your troubles.” She murmured what follows. “He came to see me. Nevile came.” “I know, my love. Your mother told me.” “She wrote to me. Rather a dreadful letter. She's on his side--she talks about his position in the county.” “I daresay, I daresay. But you know, your mother thinks a great deal of that kind of thing. She says we owe a deal to our station, you know. There's something in it, my dear. I'm bound to say that.” “Papa, he--wants me again. He thinks he does.” “Oh, my dear, there's no doubt about that--none at all. He proposes--well, it's _carte blanche_; there's no other word for it. A blank cheque, you know. We must do Master Nevile justice. It is the least he can do; but he does it.” “What am I to do, Papa?” The poor gentleman looked rather blank. “Do, my dear? Do?” He puzzled; then, as the light broke on him, could not help showing his dismay. “Why, you don't mean to say--Oh, my child, is that what you mean?” She clung to him convulsively, buried her face. “God help us all!” His thought, his pity, his love whirled him hither and thither. He shivered in the blast. “'Pon my soul, I don't know how we shall break it to your mother. I don't, indeed.” He stared miserably, then caught her to him. “It breaks my heart to see you like this--my child; it cuts me to the heart. Sancie, what are we to do?” She sat up and brushed her dry eyes with her handkerchief. “I know. There's nothing to do. It's my fate.” This was rather shocking to old Mr. Percival, who shared the common opinion of matrimony, that it should be marked by champagne at luncheons. It was a signal for rejoicing--therefore you must rejoice. White stood for a wedding all the world over, black for a funeral. To go scowling to church, or tearless to the cemetery, was to fail in duty. “We mustn't look at it like that, my darling. I don't think we ought, indeed. Fate, you know! That's a gloomy view of an affair of the sort. I don't pretend to understand you, quite, my love. You see, a year or two ago, you would have asked nothing better--and now you call it fate. Oh, my dear--”