"He couldn't. But of course he meant you to know. Mr. Stirling is an old friend of theirs, and he has always insisted on keeping Dick away from his people. He doesn't even like it to be known that Dick belongs to them—so you mustn't tell anyone, please, without his leave. It is only for you and father." "I suppose you are aware that, when one marries, there are settlements, and lawyer's inquiries, and everything has to come out." Doris looked puzzled. "Perhaps that could be got over," she suggested, with pleasing vagueness. "Or—there might be no settlements. And Dick does intend to speak to Mr. Stirling, only not until he has seen father. Mr. Stirling won't like his coming here. But really, now that Dick is close upon twenty-seven years old, he surely has a right to decide for himself." Mrs. Winton had again difficulty in holding back what she felt. "All this ought to show you how utterly impossible the whole thing is," she said; and there was a fresh silence. "But, mother, it is—Dick!" came at length. "It's not other people, and relations, and settlements. It is just—my Dick. If you only knew what he is, you would understand! It is—Dick himself." She suddenly saw those pleading grey eyes, felt the grasp of those strong shapely hands, heard the tender musical voice,—and nothing else mattered. Mrs. Winton's touch came on hers, a trifle heavily, yet with real feeling. "If you knew what he is to me, mother!" "My dear, whatever he has been to you, he has not behaved rightly." "He spoke out the truth about his people." "Before he began trying to win you?" "It wasn't long—after. I don't think he knew how much he cared—till that day on the Glückhorn." "And then he explained all?" Doris made no direct reply. "It must be a little hard upon you, dear,—as well as upon him. You see, you have had your mind full of him. And he has been—attentive, and so on. But just think—if you married him—think of the position you would be in. Think of your father's cousins." The Rector, though eccentric, was well-connected. "Think of my people." "One needn't bring all one's relatives together, I suppose." "But the people that one would like to keep apart have an unfortunate knack of coming together, just at the wrong times," Mrs. Winton remarked dryly. Doris sat upright. "I know all that," she said. "But I promised. I have given myself to Dick. I did it with my eyes open." "You could only promise conditionally—if we should consent." "If you forbid it—" Every line in her attitude spoke resentment. "If we do, it will be for your sake, darling." Hardly three times in her life had Mrs. Winton used that endearing term. The girl's face softened. "By-and-by you will be grateful to us for saving you from a lifetime of unhappiness." "You don't know Dick, mother!" "But whatever he may be in himself, that does not touch the question of what his people are." Doris murmured an unwilling half-assent.