air with
a cigar. "I want to talk with you, my dear."

"Yes, papa," answered Hermione, meekly.

"Hermy, do you mean to marry Paul, or not? Don't be nervous, my child,
but think the matter over before you answer. If you mean to have him, I
have no objection to the match; but if you do not mean to, I would like
to know. That is all. You know you spoke to me about it in England
before we left home. Things have been going on a long time now, and yet
Paul has said nothing to me about it."

It was impossible to put the matter more clearly than this, and Hermione
knew it. She said nothing for some minutes, but sat staring out of the
window at the dark water, where the boats moved slowly about, each
bearing a little light at the bow. Far down the quay a band was playing
the eternal _Stella Confidente_, which has become a sort of national air
in Turkey. The strains floated in through the window, and the young girl
struggled hard to concentrate her thoughts, which somehow wound
themselves in and out of the music in a very irrelevant manner.

"Must I answer now, papa?" she asked at last, almost desperately.

"My dear," replied the inexorable John, in kind tones, "I cannot see why
you should not. You are probably in very much the same state of mind
to-night as you were in yesterday, or as you will be in to-morrow. It is
better to settle the matter and be done with it. I do not believe that a
fortnight, a month, or even a longer time will make any perceptible
difference in your ideas about this matter." He puffed at his cigar, and
again looked at his daughter.

"Hermy," he continued, after another interval of silence, "if you do not
mean to marry Paul, you are treating him very badly. You are letting
that idiot of a brother of his make love to you from morning till
night."

"Oh, papa! How can you!" exclaimed Hermione, who was not accustomed to
hearing any kind of strong language from her father.

"Idiot,--yes, my dear, that expresses it very well. He is my nephew, and
I have a right to call him an idiot if I please. I believe the fellow
wears stays, and curls his hair with tongs. He has a face like a girl,
and he talks unmitigated rubbish."

"I thought you liked him, papa," objected Hermione. "I do not think he
is at all as silly as you say he is. He is very agreeable."

"I have no objection to him," retorted John Carvel. "I tolerate him.
Toleration is not liking. He fascinated us all for a day or two, but it
did not las