"It's because I've had nothing to eat since Paris," Ingeborg explained apologetically, holding the teapot in both hands because one by itself shook too much, and feeling, too, that the moment was not exactly one for tea. The Bishop started. "Since where?" he said. "Paris," said Ingeborg; adding tremulously, having quite lost her nerve and only desiring to fill up the silence, "it--it's a place abroad." Mrs. Bullivant murmured a more definitely earnest request that Richards might be rung for to take her to bed. "Ingeborg," said the Bishop in a voice she did not know. "Paris?" "Yes, father--last night." "Ingeborg, come here." He was pointing to a chair a yard or two from the hearthrug on which he stood, and his voice was very strange. She put down the cup with a shaking hand and went to him. Her heart was in her mouth. "What have you been doing?" he said. "I told you, father. I'm engaged to Herr--" "How did you get to Paris?" "By train." "Will you answer me? What were you doing in Paris?" "Having dinner." She was terrified. Her father was talking quite loud. She had never in her life seen him like this. She answered his questions quickly, her heart leaping as he rapped them out, but her answers seemed to make him still angrier. If only he would let her explain, hear her out; but he hurled questions at her, giving her no time at all. "Father," she said hurriedly, seeing that after that last answer of hers he did for a moment say nothing, but stood looking at her very extraordinarily, "please let me tell you how it all happened. It won't take a minute--it won't really. And then, you see, you'll _know_. I didn't mean to do anything, I really didn't; but the dentist pulled my tooth out so quickly, that very first day, and so instead of coming home I went to Lucerne--" "To--" "Yes," she nodded, in a frenzy of haste to get it all said, "to Lucerne--I couldn't tell you why, but I did--I seemed pushed there, and after a little while I got engaged, and I didn't in the least mean to do that, either, really I didn't--but somehow--" Was there any use trying to tell him about the white and silver cake and the seven witnesses and the undoubting kind Herr Dremmel and all the endless small links in the chain? Would he ever, ever understand?--"somehow I _did_. You see," she added helplessly, looking up at him with eyes full of an appeal for comprehension, for mercy, "one thing leads to another." And as he still said nothing she added, even more helplessly, "Herr Dremmel sat opposite me in the train." "You picked him up casually, like any servant girl, in a train?" "He was one of the party. He was there from the beginning. Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you--it was one of Dent's Tours." "You went on a Dent's Tour?"