He had lived so long in the world of his own making, that he had almost forgotten the existence of any other. Tor was a regular visitor to his house, and was constantly thrown into the society of his beautiful daughter; and it never occurred to him that he might be an equally constant visitor at other houses, and see there other women even more beautiful and attractive than his Roma. Neither did it trouble his head to remember how many handsome women the traveller must have come across in his wanderings, without falling into the snare of matrimony. All such calculations were quite out of Mr. Meredith’s habit of mind. He made his plans, and looked for their fulfilment as a matter of course. Still, as days lengthened into weeks, and nothing came of the many opportunities the blind man gave for the young people to open their hearts to one another, he began to grow a little impatient. He did not see any need for so much courting. He liked a man to come to the point at once; and Tor’s self-reliant boldness of speech and manner had made him suppose that he would not hesitate long, when once his mind was made up. Michael Meredith, however, was not a bashful man, nor a man given to scruples of delicacy, in spite of his refined appearance and fastidious tastes. He had hitherto held back from opening the subject simply because Roma had seemed to wish it, not from any feeling that it would be out of taste for him to offer his daughter in marriage to one of the wealthiest men in the county. But as time went on, and the young man did not declare himself, in spite of his frequent opportunities, Mr. Meredith grew annoyed by his backwardness, and determined at length to make his way plain for him. Tor had joined him in the garden one evening, to find him unusually silent and abstracted. He hardly returned any answers to his talk, and did not evince any interest in the news with which the young man sought to beguile him. ‘I am afraid you are not well, sir,’ he said at length; ‘I fear my talk tires you. I had better perhaps leave you now. I suppose the heat of the weather is trying to you, as it is to many people.’ Meredith seemed to wake with a start, as from a reverie. He held up his hand as if to bid Tor keep his seat, and at the same time to command silence. Tor could not but smile at the unconsciously melodramatic air adopted by the old man. It was these little affectations which amused and puzzled him in his intercourse with Phil’s father’s friend. ‘Do not go, Philip Debenham, do not go. I am but poor company to-day, I own; yet do not go. I have been thinking much of you to-day—much of you and of my dear girl, my peerless Roma. My thoughts have been busy with the future, boy.’ ‘Indeed,’ answered Tor, with an amused smile. ‘I hope they have been pleasantly occupied.’ Meredith shook his head thoughtfully. ‘A beautiful daughter, Philip, is a great care.’ ‘And a very pleasant one, I imagine, sir.’