"But you needn't tell people what it means, papa, and I'm sure they'd never find out. Call it Lady Rachel Russell. You can invent a story about an attempted escape of her husband, or something of that kind, you know. But if you've any difficulty about the picture Mr. Lobyer shall buy it off you, papa," added Florence, with a tone that sounded rather like patronage. She was quite capable of patronising her father. "Thank you, my dear; the picture is sold already to a person who understands pictures," answered Mr. Crawford gravely. He was standing with his back to his daughter, washing his hands in a basin that formed part of the paraphernalia of a stand on which he kept the implements of his art. The winter twilight was thickening, and the light of the low fire was hidden by a crimson screen. Flo stood in the bay window, looking out into the garden with a meditative air. "You speak of Mr. Lobyer as if he were quite your own property, Florence," said the painter, as he walked to the fireplace and pushed away the screen. The firelight showed him his daughter's profile--her head bent, her eyes downcast, the small gloved hands trifling with her bonnet-strings. She did not make any reply to her father's remark, and yet he could scarcely doubt that she had heard him. "Do you really mean to marry this Mr. Lobyer?" William Crawford asked presently. "I wish you wouldn't call him _this_ Mr. Lobyer, papa," cried Flo impatiently. "What has he done that he should have a relative pronoun tacked on to his name, as if he were some new kind of wild animal. He has asked me to marry him ever so many times, and--and I suppose I do mean to marry him, papa--if you have no objection," added Florence dutifully. "If I have no objection!" exclaimed the painter. "What influence have the fathers of the present day over their children that their opinion should be asked or their wishes consulted? Don't look at me so imploringly. I am not angry with you, my dear. I am only an old-fashioned fellow, and there are many things I see nowadays that mystify me. If you like Mr. Lobyer, and Mr. Lobyer is, as he seems to be, very much in love with you, I cannot make any objection to your marrying him, though I will tell you frankly----" "Oh, pray don't, papa," cried Florence,--"pray don't tell me any thing frankly; when people talk about being frank, they are always going to say something disagreeable. It's very odd that the truth always should be so unpleasant. I know what you were going to say, papa, almost as well as if you had said it. You were going to tell me that I may marry Mr. Lobyer if I please, but that you don't like him, and that you never have liked him, and so on. The moment a girl is engaged to be married to a man, people seem to think they are privileged to abuse him."