No, Mr. Lanley could not see that he had had anything to reproach himself with in regard to his daughter’s first marriage.  They had been young, of course; all the better.  He had known the Severances for years; and Joe was handsome, hard working, had rowed on his crew, and every one spoke well of him.  Certainly they had been in love—­more in love than he liked to see two people, at least when one of them was his own daughter.  He had suggested their waiting a year or two, but no one had backed him up.  The Severances had been eager for the marriage, naturally.  Mr. Lanley could still see the young couple as they turned from the altar, young, beautiful, and confident.

He had missed his daughter terribly, not only her physical presence in the house, but the exercise of his influence over her, which in old times had been perhaps a trifle autocratic.  He had hated being told what Joe thought and said; yet he could hardly object to her docility.  That was the way he had brought her up.  He did not reckon pliancy in a woman as a weakness; or if he had had any temptation to do so, it had vanished in the period when Joe Severance had taken to drink.  In that crisis Adelaide had been anything but weak.  Every one had been so grateful to her,—­he and Joe and the Severances,—­and then immediately afterward the crash came.

Women!  Mr. Lanley shook his head, still moving briskly northward with that quick jaunty walk of his.  And this second marriage—­what about that?  They seemed happy.  Farron was a fine fellow, but not, it seemed to him, so attractive to a woman as Severance.  Could he hold a woman like Adelaide?  He wasn’t a man to stand any nonsense, though, and Mr. Lanley nodded; then, as it were, withdrew the nod on remembering that poor Joe had not wanted to stand any nonsense either.  What in similar circumstances could Farron do?  Adelaide always resented his asking how things were going, but how could he help being anxious?  How could any one rest content on a hillside who had once been blown up by a volcano?

He might not have been any more content if he had stayed to dinner at his son-in-law’s, as he had been asked to do.  The Farrons were alone.  Mathilde was going to a dinner, with a dance after.  She came into the dining-room to say good night and to promise to be home early, not to stay and dance.  She was not allowed two parties on successive nights, not because her health was anything but robust, but rather because her mother considered her too young for such vulgar excess.

When she had gone, Farron observed: 

“That child has a will of iron.”

“Vincent!” said his wife.  “She does everything I suggest to her.”

“Her will just now is to please you in everything.  Wait until she rebels.”

“But women don’t rebel against the people they love.  I don’t have to tell you that, do I?  I never have to manoeuver the child, never have to coax or charm her to do what I want.”