a is an explanation of that young man's presence
in your society."

"I told you, father, I went to see Miss Gallup, who has had bronchitis,
and he had come down from London for the week-end to see her, and so he
walked back with me."

"Did you know he was there?"

"Of course not," Mary flushed angrily, "I didn't know Miss Gallup had
been ill till Mrs Willets told me. I haven't been outside the grounds
for a fortnight except in the bucket, so I've heard no village news."

"And why did you take it upon yourself to go outside the grounds to-day
without consulting me?"

"I was rather tired of the garden, father, and it was such a lovely
day, and it seemed rather unkind never to go near any of the people
when mother was away."

"None of these reasons--if one can call them reasons--throws the
smallest light upon the fact that you have been parading the village
with this fellow, Gallup. I have told you before, I don't wish to know
him, I will not know him. His politics are abhorrent to me, and his
antecedents. . . . Surely by this time you know, Mary, that I do not
choose my friends from among the shopkeepers in Marlehouse."

"I'm sorry, father, but this afternoon it really couldn't be helped. I
couldn't be rude to the poor man when he came with me. He seemed to
take it for granted he should; Miss Gallup suggested it. I daresay he
didn't want to come at all. But they both meant it kindly--what could
I do?"

"What you can do, and what you must do, is to obey my orders. I will
not have you walk anywhere in company with that bounder----"

"He isn't a bounder, father. You're wrong there; whatever he may be he
isn't that."

Mr Ffolliot turned slowly and entered the drive. Mary followed, and in
silence they walked up to the house.

He looked at his tall daughter from time to time. She held her head
very high and her expression was rebellious. She really was an
extremely handsome girl, and, in spite of his intense annoyance, Mr
Ffolliot felt gratification in this fact.

At the hall door he paused. "I must ask you to remember, Mary, that
you are no longer a child, that your actions now can evoke both comment
and criticism, and I must ask you to confine your friendships to your
own class."

"I shall never be able to do that," Mary answered firmly; "I love the
village people far too much."

"That is a wholly different matter, and you know very well that I have
always been the first to rejoice in the very