“I should have something of my own, papa,” she said, with downcast eyes. “Not from me, Madeline. I should not encourage any such venture by the gift of a sixpence. You would have that ten thousand pounds of course, which your wise aunt left you to make ducks and drakes with--if you have not made ducks and drakes of it already.” “I have done only what Mr Mentore has advised me to do.” “You’re safe enough in old Mentore’s hands; but--granted you have that--it would not double your husband’s large income. Nine hundred a-year. My dear, what would you do upon that, Gervase and you?” “I suppose, papa,” said Madeline, “there are thousands to whom it would be wealth, in comparison with those to whom it is poverty.” “What does that matter?” he cried. “What does any general rule matter? You are individuals, Gervase and you; and to you it would be poverty. I will not consent to marry my daughter to a man who has only five hundred a-year, and no prospect of any more.” “Papa,” said Madeline, timidly, “his father--would not shut him out for ever. He must be his heir.” “And so must you be my heir,” said Mr Thursley. “Do you think it safe to calculate on that? I may not die for the next twenty years.” “Papa!” cried Madeline. “_Father!_” with quick-springing tears in her eyes. “Yes, yes, I know. You wouldn’t grudge me a day of it. But Burton is no older than I am; and to wait twenty years for dead men’s shoes is not enlivening. Perhaps, by the way, there is something else your young man means to do,” he added, pausing on his way to the door. “Perhaps he has other plans. He may be going to make his fortune in some other way?” “I don’t know,” said Madeline, with some embarrassment. She would not pour forth the full measure of Gervase’s iniquity all at once. His conclusion that it was his duty, for the sake of others, to do nothing, had been bewildering enough to herself. She did not feel strong enough to lay bare before her father that strange determination, which was so exceedingly confusing even to her own intelligence. “He may mean to paint a great picture like Millais, or get a £20,000 cheque for a book like Macaulay,” said Mr Thursley, with contempt in his voice. “You may be sure,” cried Madeline, “that even if he were bent upon writing books or painting pictures, he would never say that. Papa,” she added after a moment’s silence, “you have so much sense and understanding----” “Thank you, my dear. I am glad to have your good opinion.” “Oh, don’t laugh at me. Papa, if you were to speak to Gervase.” “I don’t believe in speaking, Madeline--especially to young men.” “To his father then--to Mr Burton. If you were to speak to him--to suggest something. Surely there are more ways than one way. If Gervase were made to consider; if he were shown things as they are; if Mr Burton would perhaps find some means---- Papa, I don’t know what to suggest; but you know. All might be set right, I am sure, if you would but find a compromise.”