“No; indeed, how should you? Well, to come to the point, it has to do with that very charming daughter of yours and my son Morris.” “I feared as much,” groaned the clergyman. “Indeed! I thought you said you did not understand.” “No, but I guessed; wherever Stella goes things seem to happen.” “Exactly; well, things have happened here. To be brief, I mean that a lot of silly women have got up a scandal about them—no, scandal is too strong a word—gossip.” “What is alleged?” asked Mr. Fregelius faintly. “Well, that your daughter threw over that young ass, Stephen Layard, because—the story seems to me incredible, I admit—she had fallen violently in love with Morris. Further that she and the said Morris were seen embracing at night on the Rectory road, which I don’t believe, as the witnesses are Layard, who is prejudiced, and his sister, who is the most ill-bred, bitter, and disappointed woman in the county. Lastly, and this is no doubt true, that they are generally on terms of great intimacy, and we all know where that leads to between a man and woman—‘Plato, thy confounded fantasies,’ etc. You see, when people sit up singing to each other alone till two in the morning—I don’t mean that Morris sings, he has no more voice than a crow; he does the appreciative audience—well, other people will talk, won’t they?” “I suppose so, the world being what it is,” sighed Mr. Fregelius. “Exactly; the world being what it is, and men and women what they are, a most unregenerate lot and ‘au fond’ very primitive, as I daresay you may have observed.” “What is to be done?” “Well, under other circumstances, I should have said, Nothing at all except congratulate them most heartily, more especially my son. But in this case there are reasons which make such a course impossible. As you know, Morris is engaged to be married to my niece, Miss Porson, and it is a contract which, even if he wished it, honour would forbid him to break, for family as well as for personal reasons.” “Quite so, quite so; it is not to be thought of. But again I ask—What is to be done?” “Is that not rather a question for you to consider? I suggest that you had better speak to your daughter; just a hint, you know, just a hint.” “Upon my word, I’d rather not. Stella can be so—decided—at times, and we never seem quite to understand each other. I did speak to her the other day when Mr. Layard wished to marry her, a match I was naturally anxious for, but the results were not satisfactory.” “Still, I think you might try.” “Very well, I will try; and, Colonel Monk, I cannot tell you how grieved I am to have brought all this trouble on you.” “Not a bit,” answered the Colonel cheerfully. “I am an old student of human nature, and I rather enjoy it; it’s like watching the puppets on a stage. Only we mustn’t let the comedy grow into a tragedy.” “Ah! that’s what I am afraid of, some tragedy. Stella is a woman who takes things hard, and if any affection really has sprung up——”