Mr. Challoner did not reply at once. The habit of tidiness in him, unconsciously asserting itself, led him to put square the case of cards which his sister had used for her Patience. Then he turned down with his foot the corner of the hearth-rug which Helen’s dress, as she walked to the fireplace, had disarranged. Indeed, it had distressed him for some time; it was easy to trip on it. Then he spoke. “And did you know that when you promised to be his wife?” he asked, with a scrupulous desire to be absolutely fair. “Yes,” said she. “Then, what are his religious opinions?” asked he, still scrupulous. “Does he believe in God?” “No.” “And you knew that all along?” “I knew it on the day when, I think, I began to love him,” she said. A sudden, superficial flow of bitterness, just as a light breeze will ruffle the surface of some huge wave, passed over her father. “For that reason?” he asked. Helen looked at him in amazement. “I did not know you could have asked me that,” she said. “And I, too, have much to learn about my children,” said he. Helen’s eye flashed back at him. She was afraid no longer. The talk she had had with Frank on that memorable Sunday afternoon she had put away like stored provisions; often since it had been food to her thoughts, and it was now all eaten, digested, assimilated. The instinct of individualism had no doubt often been present to her mind before, but what he said then had made it blossom and fructify. He had said, in fact, perhaps no more than she had known, though without knowing she knew it; his words had been a taper to a gas-jet already turned on. Without the taper it might have continued to escape; the taper made flame of it. And in the light of it the figure “father” was shewn her as a man only, capable of using one vote, in opposition it might be to her own, but, however dear and intimate he was to her, and in spite of her parentage, education, and upbringing, he was still only somebody, not herself. And she, Helen, had to be herself. “Yes; you are learning that they are people,” she said, in answer to his bitterness. “Martin and I are people. I must think for myself and feel for myself. Yes; I knew that Frank is what he is,--an atheist. And I love him.” Mr. Challoner looked at her a moment with terrible, alien eyes, meeting her full gaze. Then he turned and went towards the door. Instantly the daughter in her awoke. “Father,” she cried, holding out her hands to him, “Father.” But he passed out without turning, and she heard the door of his study opposite close behind him, and the click of a lock.