"No-o!" Lesbia looked doubtful. "I had better announce that. Father has a temper, and if he grew angry, you might grow angry also." "Oh no." George was entirely in earnest when he said this. "I should always remember that he was your father and that you love him." Lesbia again looked doubtful. "Do I love him?" she mused. "One is supposed to love one's father," suggested George. She stared at the river. "Yes! I suppose so. Honour your parents, and so forth. I don't honour my father, though--his temper is too bad. I am not quite sure if I love him." "Oh, my dear." George looked nervous. "Don't make any mistake, dear boy. I like my father, since we are good friends, and usually he is kind--that is, when he is not in a rage. But then, you see, sweetest," she sighed, "he is nearly always in a rage about some trifle. Look at the garden," she waved her hand vaguely, "I wanted to hire a gardener to make it look more respectable, and father was furious. He declared that he did not want people to come spying round the cottage. Spying! Such an odd word to use." "Your father is an odd man," said George ruefully, "and he certainly has not been over-hospitable to me. Perhaps he guesses that I have come to steal his jewel, and one can't be hospitable to a robber." Lesbia pinched his chin. "You silly boy, my father doesn't think so much of me as you do. I sometimes wonder," she went on sadly, "if he loves me at all. I am very much alone." "He doesn't treat you badly?" demanded George with sudden heat. "No, dear, no. I shouldn't allow anyone to treat me badly, not even my father. But I fancy he regards me as a necessary trouble, for sometimes he looks at me in a disagreeable way as though he fancied I was spying." "Why do you use so disagreeable a word?" asked the straightforward clerk. "My father used it himself in the first instance," she rejoined promptly; "perhaps because he doesn't want anyone else to meet the queer people who come to see him,--generally after dark. Men who smell of drink, who use slang and dress like grooms,--certainly not gentlemen. Of course I never talk to them, for when they appear, my father always sends me to my room. I'm sure," sighed the girl dolefully, "that if it wasn't for old Tim, the servant, I should be quite alone." George hugged her. "You shall never be alone again!" he whispered, and Lesbia threw her arms round his neck with great contentment. "Oh, darling, you don't know how good that sounds to me. If it were only true. You see, my father may object." "He can object until he is tired," cried the ardent lover. "If he does not make you happy I must. And when he sees this----" "Oh!" Lesbia clasped her hand in delight at the sight of a cheap turquoise ring, "how lovely!" George frowned at the mean gift. "It was all I could afford," said he.