"Don't say damsilly things to me, Fanny. All I say is, I'm not a snob, an' I've always felt I'd let all my lads choose for themselves absolutely in a matter like marriage. But I've always hoped and trusted that they'd marry somebody worth marryin'. I told the boy the other night--if he'd married a dustman's daughter I'd have welcomed her if she'd been pretty or clever or smart or something or other about her." "But Charles, she _is_ pretty." "Think so? Not my style, anyway. An' what's prettiness when there's nothing else? I like a girl with her wits about her, smart business-like sort o' girl, pretty if you like--all the better if she is--but a girl that needn't depend on her looks. Why, I'd rather the lad have married my typist than that silly little thing! Fact, I've a few factory girls I'd rather have had for a daughter-in-law than the one I've got!" "Well, it's no good troubling about it, Charles. He's done it now, and if he can put up with her I think we ought to. She's fond enough of him, I should think." "Good God, she ought to be! Probably she's got enough sense to know what's a bargain, anyway." "I think you're a bit too severe, Charles. After all, we've only seen her for a week." "Well, Fanny, answer me a straight question--are you really pleased with her?" "No, I can't say I am, but I realise we've got to make the best of her. After all, men do make silly mistakes, don't they?" "Over women they do, that's a fact.... You know, it's just struck me--that old chap Ervine's played a dam' smart game." "What do you mean?" "I bet he put her on to it. I thought I was getting somethin' out of him when I had that talk over the 'phone, but I'll acknowledge he's gone one better on me. Smart man, Ervine. I like a smart man, even if it's me he puts it across. I like him better than his daughter." "I should hate him. I think the whole business is dreadful. Perfectly dreadful.... Did you tell Rogers he could go to bed? ... I said breakfast at nine-thirty ... yes, ten if you like ..." The voices trailed off into the distance. V He crept up the stairs carefully, trying not to let them creak. At the landing outside his room he paused, looking out of the window. It was a night full of beautiful moonlight, and on the new clock-tower over the garage the weather-vane glinted like a silver arrow. Snow lay in patches against the walls, and the pools amidst the cobble-stones in the courtyard were filmed over with thin ice. As he looked out upon the scene the clock chimed the quarter. He took a few paces back and turned the handle of the door. He felt frightened to enter. What should he say to her? Would she be in bed and asleep? Would she be pretending to be asleep? Should he say nothing at all, but wait till morning, when he had thought it all over?