"Oh, mamma, mamma!" Elinor cried again as if words failed her; and so they did, for she said scarcely anything more, and evaded any answer. It went to her mother's heart, yet she made her usual excuses for it. Poor child, once so ready to decide, accepting or rejecting with the certainty that no opposition would be made to her will, but now afraid to commit herself, to say anything that her husband would not approve! Well! Mrs. Dennistoun said to herself, many a young wife is like that, and yet is happy enough. It depends so much on the man. Many a man adores his wife and is very good to her, and yet cannot bear that she should seem to settle anything without consulting his whim. And Philip Compton had never been what might be called an easy-going man. It was right of Elinor to give no answer till she knew what he would like. The dreadful thing was that she expressed no pleasure in her mother's proposal, scarcely looked as if she herself would like it, which was a thing which did give an unquestionable wound. "Mamma," she said, as they were driving to the station, not in the pony carriage this time, but in the fly, for the weather was bad, "don't be vexed that I don't say more about your wonderful, your more than kind offer." "Kind is scarcely a word to use, Elinor, between you and me." "I know, I know, mamma--and I as good as refuse it, saying nothing. Oh, if I could tell you without telling you! I am so frightened--how can I say it?--that you should see things you would not approve!" "My dear, I am of one generation and you are of another. I am an old woman, and your husband is a young man. But what does that matter? We can agree to differ. I will never thrust myself into his private affairs, and he----"