I have said more than once that my father was an odd man; and the reader will, by this time, have seen that there was much about him not easily understood. I often wonder whether, if he had been franker, I should have found him less odd than I supposed, or more odd still. Things that moved me profoundly did not apparently affect him at all. The departure of Madame, under the circumstances which attended it, appeared to my childish mind an event of the vastest importance. No one was indifferent to the occurrence in the house but its master. He never alluded again to Madame de la Rougierre. But whether connected with her exposure and dismissal, I could not say, there did appear to be some new care or trouble now at work in my father's mind. 'I have been thinking a great deal about you, Maud. I am anxious. I have not been so troubled for years. Why has not Monica Knollys a little more sense?' This oracular sentence he spoke, having stopped me in the hall; and then saying, 'We shall see,' he left me as abruptly as he appeared. Did he apprehend any danger to me from the vindictiveness of Madame? A day or two afterwards, as I was in the Dutch garden, I saw him on the terrace steps. He beckoned to me, and came to meet me as I approached. 'You must be very solitary, little Maud; it is not good. I have written to Monica: in a matter of detail she is competent to advise; perhaps she will come here for a short visit.' I was very glad to hear this. '_You_ are more interested than for my time _I_ can be, in vindicating his character.' 'Whose character, sir?' I ventured to enquire during the pause that followed. One trick which my father had acquired from his habits of solitude and silence was this of assuming that the context of his thoughts was legible to others, forgetting that they had not been spoken. 'Whose?--your uncle Silas's. In the course of nature he must survive me. He will then represent the family name. Would you make some sacrifice to clear that name, Maud?' I answered briefly; but my face, I believe, showed my enthusiasm. He turned on me such an approving smile as you might fancy lighting up the rugged features of a pale old Rembrandt. 'I can tell you, Maud; if my life could have done it, it should not have been undone--_ubi lapsus, quid feci_. But I had almost made up my mind to change my plan, and leave all to time--_edax rerum_--to illuminate or to _consume_. But I think little Maud would like to contribute to the restitution of her family name. It may cost you something--are you willing to buy it at a sacrifice? Is there--I don't speak of fortune, that is not involved--but is there any other honourable sacrifice you would shrink from to dispel the disgrace under which our most ancient and honourable name must otherwise continue to languish?' 'Oh, none--none indeed, sir--I am delighted!' Again I saw the Rembrandt smile.