"Is it likely that I shall give my consent to your marrying a young man picked up nobody knows where--out of the gutter, most likely? Who are his people, I should like to know?" "I daresay his father is as well connected as mine," answered Beatrice, who knew all about her mother's having married a _parvenu_. "Beatrice, I am ashamed of you, sneering at your own father!" "I beg your pardon, mamma; I did not mean to sneer, but you say very trying things; and Mr. Pryme is a gentleman, and every bit as good as we are!" "And where is the money to be found for this precious marriage, I should like to know? Do you suppose Mr. Pryme can support you?" "Oh dear, no; but I know papa will not let me starve." And Mrs. Miller knew it too. However angry she might be, and however unsuitably Beatrice might choose to marry, Mr. Miller would never allow his daughter to be insufficiently provided for. Beatrice's marriage portion would be a small fortune to a poor young man. "It is your money he is after!" she said, angrily. "I don't think so, mamma; and of course of that I am the best judge." "He shall never set foot here again. I shall write to him myself and forbid him the house." "That, of course, you may do as you like about, mamma; I cannot prevent your doing so, but it will not make me give him up, because I shall never marry any one else." And there Mrs. Miller was, perforce, obliged to let the matter rest. She went her way angry and vexed beyond measure, and somewhat baffled too. How is a mother to deal with a daughter who is so determined and so defiant as was Beatrice Miller? There is no known method in civilized life of reducing a young lady of twenty to submission in matters of the heart. She could not whip her, or put her on bread and water, nor could she shut her up in a dark cupboard, as she might have done had she been ten years old. All she could do was to write a very indignant letter to Mr. Pryme, forbidding him ever to enter her doors, or address himself in any way to her daughter again. Having sent this to the post, she was at the end of her resources. She did, indeed, confide the situation with very strong and one-sided colouring to her husband; but Mr. Miller had not the strong instincts of caste which were inherent in his wife. She could not make him see what dreadful deed of iniquity Herbert Pryme and his daughter had perpetrated between them. "What's wrong with the young fellow?" he asked, looking up from the pile of parliamentary blue-books on the library table before him. "Nothing is wrong, Andrew; but he isn't a suitable husband for Beatrice." "Why? you asked him here, Caroline. I suppose, if he was good enough to stay in the house, he is no different to the boys, or anybody else who was here." "It is one thing to stay here, and quite another thing to want to marry your daughter." "Well, if he's an honest man, and the girl loves him, I don't see the good of making a fuss about it; she had better do as she likes."