* * * * *

Lately (I am speaking now of the beginning of November) there had not been quite so much communication between the two camps as usual, not so many informal negotiations.  Jenny did not look in quite so often upon her father—­for ten minutes after breakfast, for instance, or before lunch—­and when he looked in on her he seemed to find her generally with rather a preoccupied air, often sitting before the wide-arched fireplace, with her hands behind her head, looking at the red logs.

He was an easy man, as has been seen, and did not greatly trouble his head about it:  he knew enough of the world to recognize that an extremely beautiful girl like Jenny, living on the terms she did with the great house—­and a house with men coming and going continually, to say nothing of lawn-tennis parties and balls elsewhere—­cannot altogether escape complications.  He was reasonable enough, too, to understand that a father is not always the best confidant, and he had supreme confidence in Jenny’s common sense.

I suppose he had his dreams; he would scarcely have been human if he had not, and he was quite human.  The throwing over of Frank had brought him mixed emotions, but he had not been consulted either at the beginning or the end of the engagement, and he acquiesced.  Of Dick’s affair he knew nothing at all.

That, then, was the situation when the bomb exploded.  It exploded in this way.

He was sitting in his study one morning—­to be accurate, it was the first Saturday in November, two days after the events of the last chapter—­preparing to begin the composition of his sermon for the next day.  They had dined up at the great house the night before quite quietly with Lord Talgarth and Archie, who had just come back.

He had selected his text with great care from the Gospel for the day, when the door suddenly opened and Jenny came in.  This was very unusual on Saturday morning; it was an understood thing that he must be at his sermon; but his faint sense of annoyance was completely dispelled by his daughter’s face.  She was quite pale—­not exactly as if she had received a shock, but as if she had made up her mind to something; there was no sign of tremor in her face; on the contrary, she looked extremely determined, but her eyes searched his as she stopped.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, father, but may I talk to you for a few minutes?”

She did not wait for his answer, but came straight in and sat down in his easy-chair.  He laid his pen down and turned a little at his writing-table to face her.

“Certainly, dear.  What is it?  Nothing wrong?”

(He noticed she had a note in her hand.)

“No, nothing wrong....”  She hesitated.  “But it’s rather important.”

“Well?”

She glanced down at the note she carried.  Then she looked up at him again.

“Father, I suppose you’ve thought of my marrying some day—­in spite of Frank?”