I dined at the Priory that night--a night, on the whole, of distinct triumph--and made acquaintance with Margaret Octon. Strange daughter of such a father! Mrs. Octon must--one was inclined to speculate--have been marvelously different from her husband--and from Jenny Driver. Imagination began to picture something ineffably timid, shrinking, gentle--something which, blending with Octon's strong rough strain, would issue in this child. She seemed all things in turn--except self-confident. Evidently she was devoted to Jenny; perpetually she referred all she did to Jenny's approval--but that "all" included many varieties. Now she would be demure, now venturesome, now childishly merry, now assuming a premature sedateness. She played tricks with Jenny, her brown eyes always asking whether she might play them; she enjoyed herself immensely--by Jenny's kind permission. This constant reference and this constant appeal found no warrant in anything in Jenny's manner; the child was evidently a privileged pet and could do just as she pleased--Jenny delighted in her. It was then in the girl's nature itself. She was grace and charm--without strength. It would be very appealing, if one were the person appealed to; it would be most attractive, most tempting, when seconded by her frail fairy-like beauty. For it was a joy to look at her; and if she looked at you, asking leave to be happy, what could you say but--"By all means--and pray let me do all I can to help!" Jenny seemed to watch her gayeties and her demureness, her ventures and retreats, with delight indeed, but also with a more subtle feeling. She not only enjoyed; she studied and pondered. She gave the impression of wanting to know what would be thought by others. This with Jenny was unusual; but her manner did unmistakably ask me my opinion several times, and when, after dinner, Margaret had waltzed Chat out of the room for a stroll in the garden, she asked it plainly. "Isn't she just as charming as she looks?" "She worships you," I remarked. "That's nothing--natural just at first, while she's so young. But don't you find her charming?" Jenny persisted. "I don't know about women--but if that form of flattery were brought to bear on any man, I don't see how he could possibly resist." "It's quite natural; it's not put on in the least." "I'm sure of it. That's what would make it so dangerous. To have that beautiful little creature treating one as a god--who could refuse the incense, or not become devoted to the worshiper?" Jenny nodded. "You understand it, I see. Men would feel that way, would they?" "Rather!" I answered, with a laugh. Jenny was leaning her head on her elbow, and looked across the table at me with a satisfied mocking smile. I could see that I had given an answer that pleased her--but she was not minded to tell me why she was pleased. Half chaffing her, half really wondering what she would be at, I asked, "Do you want Oxley Lodge for Margaret?"