"One must remember, dear," her father went on soothingly, "that with us, marriage is scarcely a subject for neurotic ecstasies or most unwholesome hysterics. Your position imposes upon you the necessity of an alliance with some house of kindred associations. The choice, therefore, is not a large one, and you are spared the very undignified competitive considerations which attach themselves to people when it does not matter whom on earth they marry. The Dukedom of Grantham is unfortunately not an ancient one, nor was it conferred upon such illustrious stock as the Marquisate of Mandeleys. However, the Granthams have their place amongst us, and I imagine that the alliance will generally be considered satisfactory." "Oh, I hope so," Letitia replied, without enthusiasm. "I only hope I shall find it satisfactory. I didn't mean to say 'yes' for at least another year." The Marquis smiled tolerantly. "Then what, my dear child," he asked, "hastened your decision?" Letitia became suddenly more serious. She bit her lip and frowned distinctly into the fire. At that moment she was furious with a thought. "I can't tell you, dad," she confessed. "I'd hate to tell you. I'd hate to put it in plain words, even to myself." He patted her hand tolerantly. "You must not take yourself too hardly to task, Letitia," he said, "if at times you feel the pressure of the outside world. You are young and of versatile temperament. Believe me, those voices to which you may have listened are only echoes. Nothing exists or is real in life which the brain does not govern. I am quite sure that you will never regret the step which you have taken this evening." Letitia stood up. "I hope not, father," she sighed, a little wistfully. "There are times when I am very dissatisfied with myself, and to-night, I am afraid, is one of them." "You analyse your sentiments, my dear, too severely," her father told her. "You are too conscientious. Your actions are all that could be desired." "You won't be lonely if that idiot takes me away from you soon?" she asked. The Marquis looked almost shocked. "Loneliness is not a complaint from which I ever expect to suffer, dear," he said, as he rose and opened the door for her. He returned to his empty chair, his half consumed whisky and soda, his vellum-bound volume, carefully marked. Somehow or other, the echoes of his last words seemed to be ringing in his ears. The fire had burned a little low, the sound of passing vehicles from outside had grown fainter and fainter. He took up his book, threw himself into his chair, gazed with vacant eyes at the thick black print. There was a sudden chill in his heart, a sudden thought, perhaps a fear. There was one way through which loneliness could come. CHAPTER XVIII