All these considerations, together with the crowning circumstance that he evidently admired her a good deal, caused Owen to fill a large place in his cousin's mind. She even asked herself seriously more than once if she were in love with Owen, but failed to answer the question decisively. She did, however, arrive at the conviction that falling in love lay much more in one's own power than was commonly supposed; and that no Romeo-and-Juliet destiny could ever inspire _her_ with an ungovernable passion for a man who possessed but a hundred and fifty pounds a year. Mrs. Hadlow had at one time felt some uneasiness--nearly as much on Owen's account as on her daughter's, to say the truth. But she had satisfied herself that there was nothing more than a fraternal kind of regard between the young people--wherein she was wrong; and that there was no danger of their imprudently marrying--wherein she was right. Mrs. Hadlow had, indeed, made up her mind that Constance would accept Theodore Bransby whenever he should offer himself; and she privately thought it high time that the offer were made. What did Theodore wait for? His means (according to Mrs. Hadlow's estimate of things) were sufficient to allow him to marry at once. But even supposing that he did not choose to marry until he had fairly entered on his career as a barrister, still there ought to be at least some clear understanding between him and Constance. All Oldchester expected to hear of their engagement, and it was not fair to the girl to leave matters in their present uncertain condition. When, at the end of the vacation, young Bransby left Oldchester again without having made any declaration, Mrs. Hadlow was not only surprised, but uneasy; and she opened her mind to her husband on the subject, invading his study at an unusual hour for that purpose. "Edward," said Mrs. Hadlow, "don't you think that Theodore Barnsby ought to have spoken before he went to town this last time?" "Spoken, my dear?" "To Constance; or to us about Constance." The canon leaned his head on his hand, keeping the thumb of the other hand inserted between the pages of his Plato as a marker, and looked absently at his wife. "Well? Don't you think he ought?" she repeated impatiently. The good canon meditated for a few moments. Then he said-- "I--I don't feel quite sure that I understand. What ought he to have said, Jane?" "Said! Goodness, Edward! He ought to have declared his intentions, of course. It is high time that something was understood clearly." The canon's gentle blue eyes lost their abstracted look, and a little sparkle came into them as he answered, "I hope--nay, I am sure--Jane, that you would not think of taking any step, or saying any word, which might compromise our dear child's dignity. Let it not appear that you are eager to put this interpretation on the young man's visits."