The Rev. George was closeted with his father for an hour. When he came out, he left the house, and travelled by omnibus to Westbourne Grove, whence he walked to a house in Uxbridge Road. Here he inquired for Mr. Conolly, and, learning that he had just come in, sent up a card. He was presently ushered into a comfortable room, with a pleasant view of the garden. A meal of tea, wheatcakes, and fruit was ready on the table. Conolly greeted his visitor cordially, and rang for another cup. The Rev. George silently noted that his host dined in the middle of the day and had tea in the evening. Afraid though as he was of Conolly, he felt strengthened in his mission by these habits, quite out of the question for Marian. The tea also screwed up his courage a little; but he talked about the electro-motor in spite of himself until the cloth was removed, when Conolly placed two easy chairs opposite one another at the window; put a box of cigarets on a little table close at hand; and invited his visitor to smoke. But as it was now clearly time to come to business, the cigaret was declined solemnly. So Conolly, having settled himself in an easy attitude, waited for the clergyman to begin. The Rev. George seemed at a loss. “Has your father spoken to you about an interview he had with me this morning?” said Conolly, good-naturedly helping him out. “Yes. That, in fact, is one of the causes of my visit.” “What does he say?” “I believe he adheres to the opinion he expressed to you. But I fear he may not have exhibited that self-control in speaking to you which I fully admit you have as much right to expect as anyone else.” “It does not matter. I can quite understand his feeling.” “It does matter—pardon me. We should be sorry to appear wanting in consideration for you.” “That is a trifle. Let us keep the question straight before us. We need make no show of consideration for one another. I have shown none toward your family.” “But I assure you our only desire is to arrange everything in a friendly spirit.” “No doubt. But when I am bent on doing a certain thing which you are equally bent on preventing, no very friendly spirit is possible except one of us surrender unconditionally.” “Hear me a moment, Mr. Conolly. I have no doubt I shall be able to convince you that this romantic project of my sister’s is out of the question. Your ambition—if I may say so without offence—very naturally leads you to think otherwise; but the prompting of self-interest is not our safest guide in this life.” “It is the only guide I recognize. If you are going to argue the question, and your arguments are to prevail, they must be addressed to my self-interest.” “I cannot think you quite mean that, Mr. Conolly.” “Well, waive the point for the present: I am open to conviction. You know what my mind is. I have not changed it since I saw your father this morning. You think I am wrong?” “Not wrong. I do not say for a moment that you are wrong. I——”