Maria took off her hat as suggested, and sat down meekly, full under fire of the glowing eyes that had produced such curious effects upon subjects so dissimilar as the late Mrs. Caresfoot and Jim Brady.  She could, however, think of nothing appropriate to say.

“My dear,” the old gentleman continued presently, “the subject upon which I have taken upon myself to speak to you is one very nearly affecting your happiness and also of a delicate nature.  My excuse for alluding to it must be that you are the child of my old friend—­ah! we were great friends fifty years ago, my dear—­and that I have myself a near interest in the matter.  Do you understand me?”

“No, not quite.”

“Well then, forgive an old man, who has no time to waste, if he comes to the point.  I mean I have come to ask you, Maria, if any understanding or engagement exists between Philip and yourself?”

The eyes were full upon her now, and she felt that they were drawing her secret from her as a corkscrew does a cork.  At last it came out with a pop.

“Yes, we are engaged.”

“Thank you, my dear.  How long have you been engaged?”

“About eight months.”

“And why has the affair been kept so secret?”

“I don’t know; Philip wished it.  He told me not to tell any one.  I suppose that I should not by rights have told you.”

“Make yourself easy, my dear.  Philip has already told me that there was an understanding between you; I only wanted to hear the confirmation of such good news from your own lips.  Young men are great coxcombs, my dear, and apt to fancy things where ladies are concerned.  I am rejoiced to hear that there is no mistake on his part.”

“I am so glad that you are pleased,” she said shyly.

“Pleased, my dear!” said the old gentleman, rising and walking up and down the room in his excitement, “pleased is not the word for it.  I am more rejoiced than if some one had left me another estate.  Look here, Maria, I had set my heart upon this thing coming to pass; I have thought of it for years.  I loved your father, and you are like your father, girl; ay, I love you too, because you are a generous, honest woman, and will bring a good strain of blood into a family that wants generosity—­ay, and I sometimes think wants honesty too.  And then your land runs into ours, and, as I can’t buy it, I am glad that it should come in by marriage.  I have always wanted to see the Abbey, Isleworth, and Rewtham estates in a ring fence before I died.  Come and give me a kiss, my dear.”

Maria did as she was bid.

“I will try to be a good daughter to you,” she said, “if I marry Philip; but,” and here her voice trembled a little, “I want to make you understand that, though this engagement exists, I have sometimes thought of late that perhaps he wanted to break it off, and——­”

“Break it off?” almost shouted the old man, his eyes flashing.  “Break it off; by God, the day he plays fast and loose with you, that day I leave the property to his cousin, George;—­there, there, I frightened you, I beg your pardon, but in his own interest, Maria, I advise you to hold him fast to his word.  To change the subject, your news has freshened me up so much that I mean to have a little company; will you come and dine with me next Thursday?”