“Ay, sir,” said Phoebe, “that’s likelier; and if I was to let him go to prison, I should sit me down and think of his parting look, and I should fling myself into the water for him before I was a day older.”

“Ye mustn’t do that anyway.  While there’s life there’s hope.”

Upon this Phoebe put him a question, and found him ready to do anything for her, in reason—­provided he was paid for it.  And the end of it all was, the prisoner was conveyed to London; Phoebe got the requisite sum; Falcon was deposited in a third-class carriage bound for Essex.  Phoebe paid his debt, and gave Cartwright a present, and away rattled the train conveying the handsome egotist into temporary retirement, to wit, at a village five miles from the Dales’ farm.  She was too ashamed of her young gentleman and herself to be seen with him in her native village.  On the road down he was full of little practical attentions; she received them coldly; his mellifluous mouth was often at her car, pouring thanks and praises into it; she never vouchsafed a word of reply.  All she did was to shudder now and then, and cry at intervals.  Yet, whenever he left her side, her whole body became restless; and when he came back to her, a furtive thrill announced the insane complacency his bare contact gave her.  Surely, of all the forms in which love torments the heart, this was the most terrible and pitiable.

Mr. Lusignan found his daughter in tears.

“Why, what is the matter now?” said he, a little peevishly.  “We have had nothing of this sort of thing lately.”

“Papa, it is because I have misconducted myself.  I am a foolish, imprudent girl.  I have been flirting with Mr. Falcon, and he has taken a cruel advantage of it—­proposed to me—­this very afternoon—­actually!”

“Has he?  Well, he is a fine fellow, and has a landed estate in Norfolk.  There’s nothing like land.  They may well call it real property—­there is something to show; you can walk on it, and ride on it, and look out of window at it:  that is property.”

“Oh, papa! what are you saying?  Would you have me marry one man when I belong to another?”

“But you don’t belong to any one except to me.”

“Oh, yes; I do.  I belong to my dear Christopher.”

“Why, you dismissed him before my very eyes; and very ill you behaved, begging your pardon.  The man was your able physician and your best friend, and said nothing that was not for your good; and you treated him like a dog.”

“Yes, but he has apologized.”

“What for? being treated like a dog?”

“Oh, don’t say so, papa!  At all events, he has apologized, as a gentleman should whenever—­whenever”—­

“Whenever a lady is in the wrong.”

“Don’t, papa; and I have asked him to dinner.”

“With all my heart.  I shall be downright glad to see him again.  You used him abominably.”