She drew her needle through the piece of embroidery which she permitted to herself for an hour on Sundays, knotted the thread and bit it off.  Then she regarded her husband.

“I....  I will have no fiddle-faddle in such a matter,” he said courageously.  “Maids did not rule their parents when I was a boy; they obeyed them or were beaten.”

His wife laughed shortly; and began to thread her needle again.

He began to explain.  The match was in all respects suitable.  Certainly there were difficulties, springing from the very startling events at Matstead, and it well might be that a man who would do as Mr. Audrey had done (or, rather, proposed to do) might show obstinacy in other directions too.  Therefore there was no hurry; the two were still very young, and it certainly would be wiser to wait for any formal betrothal until Robin’s future disclosed itself.  But no action of Mr. Audrey’s need delay the betrothal indefinitely; if need were, he, Mr. Manners, would make proper settlements.  Marjorie was an only daughter; in fact, she was in some sort an heiress.  The Manor would be sufficient for them both.  As to any other difficulties—­any of the maidenly fiddle-faddle of which his wife had spoken—­this should not stand in the way for an instant.

His wife laughed again in the same exclamatory manner, when he had done and sat stroking his knees.

“Why, you understand nothing about it, Mr. Manners,” she said, “Did the maid not tell you she would marry him, if he wished it?  She told me so.”

“Then what is the matter?” he asked.

“I know no more than you.”

“Does he not wish it?”

“She says so.”

“Then—­”

“Yes, that is what I say.  And yet that says nothing.  There is something more.”

“Ask her.”

“I have asked her.  She bids me wait, as she bids you.  It is no good, Mr. Manners.  We must wait the maid’s time.”

He sat, breathing audibly through his nose.

* * * * *

These two were devoted to their daughter in a manner hardly to be described.  She was the only one left to them; for the others, of whom two had been boys, had died in infancy or childhood; and, in the event, Marjorie had absorbed the love due to them all.  She was a strain higher than themselves, thought her parents, and so pride in her was added to love.  The mother had made incredible sacrifices, first to have her educated by a couple of old nuns who still survived in Derby, and then to bring her out suitably at Babington House last year.  The father had cordially approved, and joined in the sacrifices, which included an expenditure which he would not have thought conceivable.  The result was, of course, that Marjorie, under cover of a very real dutifulness, ruled both her parents completely; her mother acknowledged the dominion, at least, to herself and her husband; her father pretended that he did not; and on this occasion rose, perhaps, nearer to repudiating it than ever in his life.  It seemed to him unbearable to be bidden by his daughter, though with the utmost courtesy and affection, to mind his own business.