“She liked me at King’s Lorton, when she was a little girl, because I used to sit with her brother a great deal when he had hurt his foot. She had kept that in her memory, and thought of me as a friend of a long while ago. She didn’t think of me as a lover when she met me.” “Well, but you made love to her at last. What did she say then?” said Wakem, walking about again. “She said she _did_ love me then.” “Confound it, then; what else do you want? Is she a jilt?” “She was very young then,” said Philip, hesitatingly. “I’m afraid she hardly knew what she felt. I’m afraid our long separation, and the idea that events must always divide us, may have made a difference.” “But she’s in the town. I’ve seen her at church. Haven’t you spoken to her since you came back?” “Yes, at Mr Deane’s. But I couldn’t renew my proposals to her on several grounds. One obstacle would be removed if you would give your consent,—if you would be willing to think of her as a daughter-in-law.” Wakem was silent a little while, pausing before Maggie’s picture. “She’s not the sort of woman your mother was, though, Phil,” he said, at last. “I saw her at church,—she’s handsomer than this,—deuced fine eyes and fine figure, I saw; but rather dangerous and unmanageable, eh?” “She’s very tender and affectionate, and so simple,—without the airs and petty contrivances other women have.” “Ah?” said Wakem. Then looking round at his son, “But your mother looked gentler; she had that brown wavy hair and gray eyes, like yours. You can’t remember her very well. It was a thousand pities I’d no likeness of her.” “Then, shouldn’t you be glad for me to have the same sort of happiness, father, to sweeten my life for me? There can never be another tie so strong to you as that which began eight-and-twenty years ago, when you married my mother, and you have been tightening it ever since.” “Ah, Phil, you’re the only fellow that knows the best of me,” said Wakem, giving his hand to his son. “We must keep together if we can. And now, what am I to do? You must come downstairs and tell me. Am I to go and call on this dark-eyed damsel?” The barrier once thrown down in this way, Philip could talk freely to his father of their entire relation with the Tullivers,—of the desire to get the mill and land back into the family, and of its transfer to Guest & Co. as an intermediate step. He could venture now to be persuasive and urgent, and his father yielded with more readiness than he had calculated on. “_I_ don’t care about the mill,” he said at last, with a sort of angry compliance. “I’ve had an infernal deal of bother lately about the mill. Let them pay me for my improvements, that’s all. But there’s one thing you needn’t ask me. I shall have no direct transactions with young Tulliver. If you like to swallow him for his sister’s sake, you may; but I’ve no sauce that will make him go down.”