really," I began indirectly, as though
talking of something else, to distract her attention. I must confess I
blushed.

"Why so?" she asked.

Ah! so she was listening!

"I don't know, Liza. I knew a father who was a stern, austere man, but
used to go down on his knees to his daughter, used to kiss her hands,
her feet, he couldn't make enough of her, really. When she danced at
parties he used to stand for five hours at a stretch, gazing at her.
He was mad over her: I understand that! She would fall asleep tired at
night, and he would wake to kiss her in her sleep and make the sign of
the cross over her. He would go about in a dirty old coat, he was
stingy to everyone else, but would spend his last penny for her, giving
her expensive presents, and it was his greatest delight when she was
pleased with what he gave her. Fathers always love their daughters more
than the mothers do. Some girls live happily at home! And I believe I
should never let my daughters marry."

"What next?" she said, with a faint smile.

"I should be jealous, I really should. To think that she should kiss
anyone else! That she should love a stranger more than her father!
It's painful to imagine it. Of course, that's all nonsense, of course
every father would be reasonable at last. But I believe before I
should let her marry, I should worry myself to death; I should find
fault with all her suitors. But I should end by letting her marry whom
she herself loved. The one whom the daughter loves always seems the
worst to the father, you know. That is always so. So many family
troubles come from that."

"Some are glad to sell their daughters, rather than marrying them
honourably."

Ah, so that was it!

"Such a thing, Liza, happens in those accursed families in which there
is neither love nor God," I retorted warmly, "and where there is no
love, there is no sense either. There are such families, it's true,
but I am not speaking of them. You must have seen wickedness in your
own family, if you talk like that. Truly, you must have been unlucky.
H'm! ... that sort of thing mostly comes about through poverty."

"And is it any better with the gentry? Even among the poor, honest
people who live happily?"

"H'm ... yes. Perhaps. Another thing, Liza, man is fond of reckoning
up his troubles, but does not count his joys. If he counted them up as
he ought, he would see that every lot has enough happiness provided for
it. And what if