Francis did not hear her. He was still trying to grasp the fact, but once more he found himself confronted with the difficulty that he could not take Frederic seriously. That Frederic should be, regularly or irregularly, on the point of becoming a father struck him as comic and grotesque, and yet (he said to himself) it was only to be expected that in course of time the fate that had overtaken himself should overtake his son also. But also a man was usually given time to get accustomed to the idea. In the ordinary course a man introduced a young woman to his father and mother--(with a pang he thought of Mrs. Folyat's reception of this event!)--they were engaged, married, and as bluntly as possible the Church service announced the probable consequences. Everything went smoothly and one hoped for the best. But Frederic, the buffoon, the play-actor, had dispensed with all this; had, by a sort of conjuring trick, inveigled him into a strange house, and left him with a very cool and collected young woman with a strong accent and an angry mother whose speech was of the broadest, and without a word of marriage, he was told--he was told--what was he told? With a start Francis realised that he was not in the least angry, as he ought to have been, as he had every right to be, and that he was thinking of the thing without the least reference to morality. He could not fit the formula he used for ordinary offenders to the case of his son, and, being honest, though slow and sluggish of mind, he admitted to himself that his one desire was to avoid having his wife know. He looked from the young woman to her mother and saw what a serious matter it was to them and gave up his unprofitable attempt to see the thing in connection with Frederic--(who threw it all out of perspective)--and, with a very real feeling for the two women, he said: "I'm sorry. What do you want me to do?" "You're not angry?" Francis fell back with some relief on formula: "I am deeply pained and grieved. . ." But then the new little conscience there was developing in him cried out on his insincerity and he was silent. Mrs. Lipsett repeated: "I say he ought to marry her. I say . . ." "He doesn't want to marry me," said Annie. "He says he knows he couldn't make me happy." "What's right is right," said Mrs. Lipsett. "Can he afford to marry her, Mr. Folyat? Can you make him marry her?" "Can I?" thought Francis; and his mind flew to the idea of this young woman being presented to his wife as her first daughter-in-law. Then he said to himself: "It is not I who am to be considered, but these two women. Frederic is least of all to be considered."