Further sleep proved impossible; and she lay long, thinking, thinking, about affairs in general, and about Maurice in particular. After breakfast she went into the garden, and enjoyed herself among the flowers, watching the bees at work, feeding her pigeons, anxious for and yet shrinking from the decisive talk, which could not be much longer delayed. "Dick must be in such dreadful suspense," she thought. "I rather wish now that I had not asked him to wait. It is better to have things settled straight off. But anyhow, he won't be later than to-morrow. I know why mother will not speak in a hurry. She thinks she will give me time to get over my fancy. If it were no more than that—but it isn't. It is much, much more! My dear, dear Dick! If only his people were different! But that isn't his fault; and it doesn't alter in the least what he is in himself." Sauntering indoors, she found Mrs. Winton in the morning-room, busy with needlework, but evidently on the look-out for her daughter. Doris sat down, slowly pulled off her garden gloves, and said— "Mother, we've got to speak." "Yes, dear." Mrs. Winton's was a heavy footfall; but she had in this case a wholesome dread of blundering, and she was doing her utmost to tread lightly. "I've told you already—it was all my doing that we did not write sooner. You must not blame Dick for that." A shake of the head responded. "Don't you understand? How could you and father say anything, till you had seen him? How can you now? He is a perfect stranger to you both." "He ought to have given his address." "No; I settled that." The girl was instantly eager in his defence. "Even if he had known where he was going, I wouldn't have let him. He has to come here, before anything is done." Silence met this; not an easy silence to Mrs. Winton, who could have said a good deal. "I know I wasn't right in one thing. I ought to have said more about him in writing—when I began to see—but it was horribly difficult. Somehow, I couldn't. Till he spoke, I could never be sure how he really felt." "The question is—had he a right to speak at all?" "Why, mother!—of course. Any man has a right, I suppose." "To ask any woman to marry him? No! There are limits." "Well, yes, there are limits. A crossing-sweeper can't quite ask a duchess," admitted the girl hardily. "But—any gentleman—" That brought matters to a point. Mrs. Winton put down her work, and looked steadily at the warm young face. "We want you very much, my dear, not to do anything in a hurry. Remember, this is a question which involves your whole life's happiness. Of course there are things which your father and I could not possibly consent to—and we know you would obey. But we would so much rather that you should be sensible, and should see for yourself the need." "If you and father forbid it—of course—" Doris said proudly. "I would wait—at all events. But it's not fair! You don't, either of you, know him."