"'Not in love with any one' was what she was going to say," said Caspar
to himself, as he watched with keen eyes the changes of color and
expression in her face. "And she does not dare to say it after all. What
does that mean?" But he did not say this aloud.

"You don't care for Maurice, then?" he asked her.

She drew herself away from him and colored hotly, but made no other
reply.

"My dear," said Caspar, half jestingly, half warningly, "you must let me
remind you that silence is usually taken to mean consent."

And even then she did not speak.

"Really, of all incomprehensible creatures, women are the worst. Well,
well! Tell me this, at any rate, Lesley: you have not given your heart
to Oliver Trent?"

"Father! how can you ask?"

"Have you anything to complain of with respect to him? Has he always
behaved to you with courtesy and consideration?"

"I would rather not say," Lesley answered, bravely. "He--spoke as I did
not like--once--or twice; but it is his wedding-day to-morrow, and I
mean to forget it all."

"Once or twice! When was the last time, child? On Saturday? Here in this
room? Ah, I see the truth in your face. Never mind how I know it. I want
to know nothing more. Now you can go: I am busy, and shall probably have
to be out late to-night."

With these words he led the girl gently out of the room, kissed her on
the forehead before he shut the door, and then returned to his work. He
did not dine with his sister and daughter, but sent a message of excuse.
Later in the evening, Sarah reported to Miss Brooke that "Master had
gone out, looking very much upset about something or other; and he'd
taken his overcoat and his big stick, which showed, she supposed, that
he was off to the slums he was so fond of." Sarah did not approve of
slums.

CHAPTER XXXII.

ETHEL KENYON'S WEDDING-DAY.

The morning of Ethel Kenyon's wedding-day was as bright and sunny as any
wedding day had need to be. The weather was unusually warm, and the
trees were already showing the thin veil of green which is one of
spring's first heralds in smoky London town. The window-boxes in the
Square were gay with hyacinth and crocus-blossom. The flower-girls'
baskets were brilliant with "market bunches" of wall-flowers and
daffodils--these being the signs by which the dwellers in the streets
know that the winter is over, that the time of the singing of birds has
come, and that the voice of the turtle is heard in the land. The