She consulted the view again and seemed to come to a decision. “At least, I will for a minute.” She sat down. For a moment neither of them spoke.... “What are you doing here, little Norah?” She gathered her wits. Then she spoke rather volubly. “I know it looks bad, Daddy. I came up to meet a boy I know, who is going to France to-morrow. I had to make excuses--up there. I hardly remember what excuses I made.” “A boy you know?” “Yes.” “Do we know him?” “Not yet.” For a time Scrope forgot the Church of the One True God altogether. “Who is this boy?” he asked. With a perceptible effort Eleanor assumed a tone of commonsense conventionality. “He's a boy I met first when we were skating last year. His sister has the study next to mine.” Father looked at daughter, and she met his eyes. “Well?” “It's all happened so quickly, Daddy,” she said, answering all that was implicit in that “Well?” She went on, “I would have told you about him if he had seemed to matter. But it was just a friendship. It didn't seem to matter in any serious way. Of course we'd been good friends--and talked about all sorts of things. And then suddenly you see,”--her tone was offhand and matter-of-fact--“he has to go to France.” She stared at her father with the expression of a hostess who talks about the weather. And then the tears gathered and ran down her cheek. She turned her face to the Serpentine and clenched her fist. But she was now fairly weeping. “I didn't know he cared. I didn't know I cared.” His next question took a little time in coming. “And it's love, little Norah?” he asked. She was comfortably crying now, the defensive altogether abandoned. “It's love, Daddy.... Oh! love!.... He's going tomorrow.” For a minute or so neither spoke. Scrope's mind was entirely made up in the matter. He approved altogether of his daughter. But the traditions of parentage, his habit of restrained decision, made him act a judicial part. “I'd like just to see this boy,” he said, and added: “If it isn't rather interfering....” “Dear Daddy!” she said. “Dear Daddy!” and touched his hand. “He'll be coming here....” “If you could tell me a few things about him,” said Scrope. “Is he an undergraduate?” “You see,” began Eleanor and paused to marshal her facts. “He graduated this year. Then he's been in training at Cambridge. Properly he'd have a fellowship. He took the Natural Science tripos, zoology chiefly. He's good at philosophy, but of course our Cambridge philosophy is so silly--McTaggart blowing bubbles.... His father's a doctor, Sir Hedley Riverton.” As she spoke her eyes had been roving up the path and down. “He's coming,” she interrupted. She hesitated. “Would you mind if I went and spoke to him first, Daddy?” “Of course go to him. Go and warn him I'm here,” said Scrope.