"It's what I've wanted to do all my life, only I've always thought it impossible. You'll laugh, I know, sir, but I used to preach sermons when I was a boy, just to myself in my bed-room, and I made a little altar when I was sixteen. I never dared talk about it at home. They always laughed at me. I never dared tell them what I wanted to do. They said I must go into an office when I was sixteen, and I went there. . . . You know we, Gertrude and I, thought you would take me as curate as soon as I was ordained, and then when I got a living we could be married." "I'm much obliged to you for letting me know your plans, but it means time and money. We could send you to a theological college, when you're . . . How old are you?" "Nineteen," said Bennett, with a hot blush. "Nineteen. When you're twenty-one. The money is the difficulty. I have very little." "My uncles are both rich men. I'm sure they would help if you would speak for me, and tell them what you think." "Oh! do!" said Annette. Bennett darted a look of gratitude at her. "What I think!" Francis smiled. "You haven't given me much time yet. I like you. I like your enthusiasm. I've no doubt you would make a good clergyman, but it is a very poorly paid profession . . ." "That doesn't matter at all," cried Bennett. "It's the work that matters." And he rushed off into a long tirade which Annette thought very splendid, and Francis punctuated with thin blue puffs of smoke from his pipe. "On the whole," said Francis, reflectively. "On the whole I think it would be better when I meet your father to say nothing about your relationship with my daughter." Bennett seemed to be on the point of protesting. Francis hurried on: "I take it seriously, I assure you. My daughter considers herself engaged to you. She is old enough to know her own mind. On the other hand, I don't think I can give you any official recognition until there is some more immediate prospect of your being able to provide a livelihood for the two of you." Bennett was embarrassed by all this, and his enthusiasm oozed away and left him blank and expressionless. Fortunately--perhaps deliberately--he had his profile towards Annette, and she found it very beautiful. She had a queer feeling that her father was teasing the young man, and she wanted to defend and help him. His ambition was altogether laudable, and he was in love (so she believed); the two things were interdependent and both must be promoted. Had it been in her power she would have turned Bennett into a clergyman there and then, and handed him over to Gertrude with her blessing. Gertrude came in just then and shattered Annette's bountiful altruism of desire by saying: "You here!" And Annette, who had been inflated by her dreams for Bennett and his fervency, felt at once like Cinderella, and she crept away to the kitchen, taking in her mind the picture of Gertrude embracing her father and Bennett shaking her father's hand.