This letter was, on the whole, rather a calm and business-like performance.  Brand could appeal to Natalie, and that earnestly and honestly enough; he felt he could not bring himself to make any such appeal to her father.  Indeed, any third person reading this letter would have taken it to be more of the nature of a formal demand, or something required by the conventionalities; a request the answer to which was not of tremendous importance, seeing that the two persons most interested had already come to an understanding.

But Mr. Lind did not look at it in that light at all.  He was at first surprised; then vexed and impatient, rather than angry; then determined to put an end to this nonsense at once.  If he had deemed the matter more serious, he would have sat down and considered it with his customary fore thought; but he was merely irritated.

“Beratinsky was not so mad as I took him to be, after all,” he said to himself.  “Fortunately, the affair has not gone too far.”

He carried the open letter up-stairs, and found Natalie in the drawing-room, dusting some pieces of Venetian glass.

“Natalie,” he said, with an abruptness that startled her, and in a tone of anger which was just a little bit affected—­“Natalie, what is the meaning of this folly?”

She turned and regarded him.  He held the open letter in his hand.  She said, calmly,

“I do not understand you.”

This only vexed him the more.

“I ask you what you have been doing in my absence?” he said, angrily.  “What have you been doing to entitle any man to write me such a letter as this?  His affection! your future!—­has he not something else to think of?  And you—­you seem not to have been quite so dull when I was away, after all!  Well, it is time to have an end of it.  Whatever nonsense may have been going on, I hope you have both of you come to your senses.  Let me hear no more of it!”

Now she saw clearly what the letter must contain—­what had stirred her father to such an unusual exhibition of wrath.  She was a little pale, but not afraid.  There was no tremor in her voice as she spoke.

“I am sorry, papa, you should speak to me like that.  I think you forget that I am no longer a child.  I have done nothing that I am ashamed of; and if Mr. Brand has written to you, I am willing to share the responsibility of anything he says.  You must remember, papa, that I am a woman, and that I ought to have a voice in anything that concerns my own happiness.”

He looked at her almost with wonder, as if he did not quite recognize her.  Was this the gentle-natured little Natalushka, whose eyes would fill with tears if she was scolded even in fun?—­this tall, self-possessed girl with the pale face, and the firm and even tones?

“Do you mean to tell me, Natalie, that it is with your consent Brand has written to me?” her father asked, with frowning brows.

“I did not know he would write.  I expected he would.”