Either she was a girl of extraordinary
stupidity, or she was wilfully blind. Perhaps there was no one to point
out to her Caspar Brooke's many virtues. But they (thought Maurice) lay
on the surface, and could not possibly be overlooked. The girl must have
been spoiled by her residence in a French convent: she must be either
stupid, frivolous, or base. Then how could Ethel care for her? Surely
she could not be stupid: she could not be base--she might be frivolous:
Maurice could not go so far as to think that his sister Ethel would like
her the worse for being a little frivolous. Yes, that must be it: she
was frivolous--a soulless butterfly, who pined for the gaieties of
Paris. How awfully hard for a man like Caspar Brooke to have a daughter
who was merely frivolous.

The more he thought of it--and he thought a good deal of it--the more
Mr. Kenyon was concerned. No doubt it was no business of his, he said to
himself, and he was a fool to worry himself. But then Brooke was his
friend, in spite of the disparity of their years; and he did not like to
think that his friend had such a heavy burden to bear. For, of course,
it was a heavy burden to a man like Brooke. No doubt Brooke did not show
that it was a burden: strong men did not cry out when their strength was
tried. But a man with his power of affection, his tenderness, his depth
of feeling (as Maurice thought), must be troubled when he found that his
daughter neither loved nor comprehended him!

Maurice reflected that he had seen this extraordinary girl once. She had
been standing at the window one day when he and Ethel were feeding that
pampered poodle of Ethel's, Scaramouch, and he had been struck by the
grace of her figure, the queenly pose of her head. He had not observed
her face particularly, but he believed that it was rather pretty. Her
dress--for his practised memory began to furnish him with details--her
dress was grey, and if he could judge aright, fashionably made. Yes, a
little French fashion-plate--a doll, powdered, perhaps, and painted,
laced up, and perfumed and clothed in dainty raiment, to come and make
discord in her father's home! It was intolerable. Why did not Brooke
leave this pestilent creature in her own abode, with the insolent,
aristocratic friends who had done their best already to spoil his life!

Thus he worked himself up to a high pitch of passionate excitement on
his friend's behalf. It never occurred to him that Caspar Brooke might
not