shook hands with her. She had her little pet dog with her, and they
talked a minute or two about it. He was country-bred and had dog-lore;
she listened with an interest almost reverential. "Now!" he said with a
sigh, as he left her to go into the house. He had welcomed that little
interlude of brightness.

Jenny received him with stately dignity; if Nathan came to David, still
let him remember that David was a King! She rose for a moment from the
high-backed elbow-chair in which she sat; she did not offer her hand
but, with a slight inclination of her head, indicated a chair. Then,
seated again, she awaited his opening with the stillness of a forced
composure. She might be afraid; she would show no fear. She faced him
full where he sat, and challenged the light that fell on her face from
the big window. I stood leaning against the mantelpiece, a few paces
from her on her left.

"In coming to you, Miss Driver," he said, "I'm doing an unconventional
thing. The circumstances seem to me to call for it; it's the only thing
left to do, and nothing will be gained unless I face it and do it
plainly. I want to tell you something about a household which you have
no opportunity of seeing--something about Fillingford Manor. I go there,
you know; you don't."

"No--not now," said Jenny.

"I say nothing about Lady Sarah. She is not, perhaps, very wise or very
generous. Yet even for her allowances are to be made."

"I make such allowance as consists in absolute indifference, Mr.
Alison."

"That's beyond your right--but no matter. In that house there is a
father who loves his son and who respects himself. The father is
miserable and humiliated. Do you recognize any responsibility in
yourself for that?"

"Lord Fillingford once wanted to marry me--for my money, I think."

"I think you do him less than justice. Never mind that. I answer by
asking you why he doesn't want to marry you now--even with your money."

"A very palpable hit!" said Jenny with a slight smile. "But did you come
here only to say things like that? I know you think you have a right to
say them--but what's the good?"

"The good is if they make you think--and I have a right to say them,
though I fear your bitterness made me put them too harshly. If so, I beg
your pardon. In whatever way I put them, the facts are there. Father and
son are strangers in heart already; very soon they will be enemies if
you persist in what you are doing."

"What am I doing?" ask