after
this. Even in these private pages, my self-esteem finds it hard to
confess what happened. I succeeded in reminding Philip that he had his
reasons for requesting me to leave the room.

"Will you excuse me, Miss Helena," he said, "if I ask leave to speak to
Mr. Gracedieu in private?"

The right thing for me to do was, let me hope, the thing that I did.
I rose, and waited to see if my father would interfere. He looked at
Philip with suspicion in his face, as well as surprise. "May I ask," he
said, coldly, "what is the object of the interview?"

"Certainly," Philip answered, "when we are alone." This cool reply
placed my father between two alternatives; he must either give way, or
be guilty of an act of rudeness to a guest in his own house. The choice
reserved for me was narrower still--I had to decide between being told
to go, or going of my own accord. Of course, I left them together.

The door which communicated with the next room was pulled to, but not
closed. On the other side of it, I found Eunice.

"Listening!" I said, in a whisper.

"Yes," she whispered back. "You listen, too!"

I was so indignant with Philip, and so seriously interested in what was
going on in the study, that I yielded to temptation. We both degraded
ourselves. We both listened.

Eunice's base lover spoke first. Judging by the change in his voice, he
must have seen something in my father's face that daunted him. Eunice
heard it, too. "He's getting nervous," she whispered; "he'll forget to
say the right thing at the right time."

"Mr. Gracedieu," Philip began, "I wish to speak to you--"

Father interrupted him: "We are alone now, Mr. Dunboyne. I want to know
why you consult me in private?"

"I am anxious to consult you, sir, on a subject--"

"On what subject? Any religious difficulty?"

"No."

"Anything I can do for you in the town?"

"Not at all. If you will only allow me--"

"I am still waiting, sir, to know what it is about."

Philip's voice suddenly became an angry voice. "Once for all, Mr.
Gracedieu," he said, "will you let me speak? It's about your daughter--"

"No more of it, Mr. Dunboyne!" (My father was now as loud as Philip.) "I
don't desire to hold a private conversation with you on the subject of
my daughter."

"If you have any personal objection to me, sir, be so good as to state
it plainly."

"You have no right to ask me to do that."

"You refuse to do it?"

"Positively."

"You are not very civil,