"Well," said he, "I'm not sure that there isn't something in what you say. I do believe you're right, my dear--in fact, I'm positive you're right. The love for a fine woman--well, it's a first-rate sensation--most refreshing." "For a woman?" asked Jean, a little surprised. "But we were talking about a man." There was no mirror available, but Mr. Walkingshaw had a strong suspicion that he must be blushing. "For a man--of course," he said hastily. "I meant for a man. But in a general way I think I may say that love's the thing for everybody! It's the thing for you and me anyhow, eh, Jean?" Jean felt as though she had scrubbed a lump of crystal and found it to be a diamond. How was it she had never before discovered these depths of affection and geniality below his awe-inspiring exterior? She had not scrubbed hard enough! "Yes, indeed!" said she. "Oh, I do understand you now. Father, I'm so happy! And you won't think too hardly of Mr. Vernon, will you?" "H'm," smiled her father. "That's a matter we might well take to avizandum, I think." For a daughter of a Writer to the Signet, Jean was woefully ignorant. She did not know what avizandum meant in the least. But she felt sure it was the name of one of the roads to happiness; and she hugged him again. It was in the midst of this embrace that Mrs. Donaldson entered. She had always esteemed the author of her own existence and her family's prosperity, but she had never hugged him; nor had he shown any evidence of desiring such an operation. "Good gracious, Jean!" she exclaimed. "We are arranging a bike ride," beamed her father. To complete the confusion of his more creditable daughter, this improbable announcement was accompanied by an unabashed wink, directed at his less creditable child apparently for the superfluous purpose of assuring her he jested. That evening Mr. Walkingshaw began to be discussed by his fellow-citizens in earnest. CHAPTER VI "You're not drinking, Andrew," said Mr. Walkingshaw. "Go on, fill up your glass. Man, do you call that filling a glass? Here's the way." Leaning across the table, he poured in the port till it stood above the rim, with the steady hand of a man of forty. He was hardly as young as that yet, but he was amazingly rejuvenated. It could not possibly last, Andrew said to himself; still, he felt dreadfully uncomfortable. "You seem very anxious I should drink," he said gloomily, looking askance at his brimming glass. "You're so dull, my boy," his father answered genially. "There's no life in you at all. You for a lover! You ought to have come back looking happy. One would think she'd broken it off." It was the evening of the same day. Andrew had returned from his visit to the Berstouns shortly after Mrs. Donaldson departed, and as Frank was dining out, he and his father sat alone together over their wine. "I've no reason to feel particularly happy," he said. "Eh?" cried his father. "Nothing gone wrong, is there?"