Michael kept his room a good deal in these wretched days of winter, so that Joseph had no difficulty in obtaining private interviews with his daughter. Every such occasion he used assiduously, his great end being to possess himself of Jane’s confidence. He did not succeed quite so well with the girl as with her grandfather; there was always a reserve in her behaviour which as yet he found it impossible to overcome. Observation led him to conclude that much of this arose from the view she took of his relations with Sidney Kirkwood. Jane was in love with Sidney; on that point he could have no doubt; and in all likelihood she regarded him as unfriendly to Sidney’s suit—women are so shrewd in these affairs. Accordingly, Joseph made it his business by artful degrees to remove this prepossession from her mind. In the course of this endeavour he naturally pressed into his service the gradually discovered fact that Sidney had scruples of conscience regarding Jane’s fortune. Marvellous as it appeared to him, he had all but come to the conclusion that this _was_ a fact. Now, given Jane’s character, which he believed he had sounded; given her love for Kirkwood, which was obviously causing her anxiety and unhappiness; Joseph saw his way to an admirable piece of strategy. What could be easier, if he played his cards well and patiently enough, than to lead Jane to regard the fortune as her most threatening enemy? Valuable results might come of that, whether before or after the death of the old man. The conversation in which he first ventured to strike this note undisguisedly took place on the same evening as that unpleasant scene when Sidney as good as quarrelled with him—the evening before the day on which Sidney asked Clara Hewett to be his wife. Having found Jane alone, he began to talk in his most paternal manner, his chair very near hers, his eyes fixed on her sewing. And presently, when the ground was prepared: ‘Jane, there’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you for a long time. My dear, I’m uneasy about you.’ ‘Uneasy, father?’ and she glanced at him nervously. ‘Yes, I’m uneasy. But whether I ought to tell you why, I’m sure I don’t know. You’re my own child, Janey, and you become dearer to me every day; but—it’s hard to say it—there naturally isn’t all the confidence between us that there might have been if—well, well, I won’t speak of that.’ ‘But won’t you tell me what makes you anxious?’ He laid the tips of his fingers on her head. ‘Janey, shall you be offended if I speak about Mr. Kirkwood?’ ‘No, father.’ She tried in vain to continue sewing. ‘My dear—I believe there’s no actual engagement between you?’ ‘Oh no, father,’ she replied, faintly. ‘And yet—don’t be angry with me, my child—I think you are something more than friends?’ She made no answer. ‘And I can’t help thinking, Janey—I think about you very often indeed—that Mr. Kirkwood has rather exaggerated views about the necessity of—of altering things between you.’