'I can't imagine,' said Lucy inconsequently, with eyes once more swimming, 'why you can't let me do what Dora does! She's _much_ better than I am. She's a saint, she is. She's always going to church; she's always doing things for poor people; she never thinks about herself, or whether she's pretty, or--Why shouldn't I dance if she does?' Purcell laughed. 'Aye!' he said grimly, 'that's the Papistical way all over. So many services, so much fasting, so much money, so much knocking under to your priest, so much "church work"--and who cares a brass farthing what you do with the rest of your time? Do as I tell you, and dance away! But I tell you, Christianity wants _a new heart_!' And the bookseller looked at his daughter with a frowning severity. Conversation of this kind was his recreation, his accomplishment, so to speak. He had been conducting a difficult negotiation all day of the diamond-cut-diamond order, and was tired out and disgusted by the amount of knowledge of books which even a gentleman may possess. But here was compensation. A warm hearthrug, an unwilling listener, and this sense of an incomparable soundness of view,--he wanted nothing more to revive him, unless, indeed, it were a larger audience. As for Lucy, as she looked up at her father, even her childish intelligence rose to a sense of absurdity. As if Dora hadn't a new heart; as if Dora thought it was enough to go to church and give sixpences in the offertory! But her father overawed her. She had been left motherless at ten years old, and brought up since away from home, except for holidays. At the bottom of her she was quite conscious that she knew nothing at all about this big contemptuous person, who ordered her about and preached to her, and never let himself be kissed and played with and coaxed as other girls' fathers did. So she went on with her washing up in a crushed silence, very sorry for herself in a vague passionate way, the corners of her mouth drooping. Purcell too fell into a reverie, the lower jaw pushed forward, one hand playing with the watch-chain which adorned his black suit. 'Did you give Grieve that message?' he asked at last. Lucy, still sulky, nodded in reply. 'What time did he come in from dinner?' 'On the stroke of the half-hour,' said Lucy quickly. 'I think he keeps time better than anybody you ever had, father.' 'Insolent young whelp!' said Purcell in a slow, deliberate voice. 'He was at that place again yesterday.' 'Yes, I know he was,' said Lucy, with evident agitation. 'I told him he ought to have been ashamed.' 'Oh, you talked to him, did you? What business had you to do that, I wonder? Well, what did he say?' 'He said--well, I don't know what he said. He don't seem to think it matters to anybody where he goes on Sunday!' 'Oh, indeed--don't he? I'll show him some cause to doubt the truth of that proposition,' said Purcell ponderously; 'or I'll know the reason why.'