Of Dick Maurice nothing further had been heard. Doris was told in brief outline of his interview with her father. She often wondered that no letter, no message, came,—feeling that she, in his place, would not have been so soon "choked off." Yet it was better for both that he should keep away. She had not, of course, been near Wyldd's Farm. Her promise to Winnie troubled her; but she felt that a call there was for the present not to be thought of. Now and again she saw Jane Morris; and never without a throb of thankfulness at her own freedom from that tie. At other times recollections of Dick would rise with overwhelming power, making her crave to have him again at any cost. But this was only occasional. In a general way she was caught, enveloped, held captive, in the old circle of interests, by the influences of her life. Appreciation of good birth, extreme particularity of taste, a passion for refinement and high breeding,—these were by nature and by training a part of her very self. In reverting to them, after a brief spell of dislocation, she reverted also to Hamilton Stirling as the embodiment of them. "If it has to be, it must be, I suppose," she said one day to herself, as she stood in the hall, gazing out of the window. "I don't know what I really want. I wish I did. He really is a dear man—rather too fond of old bones and stones; but everybody is too fond of something. He might have worse likings. We shall get along all right, I dare say. Oh dear, what a difficult world it is! I hope Dick won't quite forget me! Shall I ever be able to forget him?" The question came involuntarily, and it startled her. Then a step behind made her turn. "Mother—Mrs. Stirling wants me to go to Deene to-morrow—for the day." "Yes, I know, my dear. You will accept, of course." This was going too far; and Doris drew back. "I don't know. I'll think about it." She realised suddenly that a good deal might hang upon her answer. "I can see no reason why you should hesitate." Doris would not wait to discuss the question. She caught up a basket of flowers, just gathered, and went to put them in her father's study. He loved flowers, with the tenderness which underlay his rugged exterior. While she was there, standing by a little side-table, he came in and surprised her in the act of dropping quiet tears into a mass of blooms. He had watched her of late with a growing sense of uneasiness; but it was not his way to interfere hastily. Silence with him was often wrongly supposed to mean non-observation. "There!" Doris said cheerfully, when she heard his step; and she pushed the vase to its right position, then looked up with a smile. But two great drops, ready to fall, refused to be held back, and they splashed obtrusively upon a sheet of half-written paper. "Oh, what a duffer I am! I've spoilt a page of your sermon, daddy."