“Well,” said Mr. Romer, as Gladys waited mockingly, “I do want you to do something. I want you to hint to our dear clergyman that this ceremony of your reception into his church is dependent upon his good behaviour. Not _your_ good behavior,” he repeated smiling, “but _his_. The truth is, dear child, if I may speak quite plainly, I know the persuasive power of your pretty face over all these young men; and I want you to make it plain to this worthy priest that if you are to continue being nice to him, he must be very nice to _me_. Do you catch my meaning, my plump little bird?” As he spoke he encircled her waist with his arm. Lacrima, watching them, thought how singularly alike father and daughter were, and was conscious of an instinctive desire to run and warn this new victim of conspiracy. “Why, what has he been doing, father?” asked the fair girl, shaking herself free, and opening her parasol. “He has been supporting that fellow Wone. And he has been talking nonsense about Quincunx,--yes, about your friend Quincunx,” he added, nodding ironically towards Lacrima. “And I am to punish him, am I?” laughed Gladys. “That is lovely! I love punishing people, especially people like Mr. Clavering who think they are so wonderfully good!” Mr. Romer smiled. “Not exactly punish him, dear, but lead him gently into the right path. Lead him, in fact, to see that the party to belong to in this village is the party of capacity--not the party of chatter.” Gladys looked at her father seriously. “You don’t mean that you are actually afraid of losing this election?” she said. Mr. Romer stretched out his arm and rested himself against the umbrageous sycamore, pressing his large firm hand upon its trunk.