“Ahem!” said Mr. Lind.  “I have to speak to you with—­with reference to—­to a—­a matter which has accidentally come to my knowledge.  It would be painful and unnecessary—­quite unnecessary, to go into particulars.”

Conolly remained politely attentive, but said nothing.  Mr. Lind began to feel very angry, but this helped him to the point.

“I merely wish—­that is, I quite wish you to understand that any intimacy that may have arisen between you and—­and a member of my family must—­must, in short, be considered to be at an end.  My daughter is—­I may tell you—­engaged to Mr. Sholto Douglas, whom you know; and therefore—­you understand.”

“Mr. Lind,” said Conolly, decisively:  “your daughter is engaged to me.”

Mr. Lind lost his temper, and rose, exclaiming, “I beg you will not repeat that, either here or elsewhere.”

“Pray be seated,” said Conolly courteously.

“I have nothing more to say, sir.”

Conolly rose, as though the interview were at an end, and seemed to wait for his visitor to go.

“We understand one another, I presume,” said Mr. Lind, dubiously.

“Not quite, I think,” said Conolly, relenting.  “I should suggest our discussing the matter in full, now that we have a favorable opportunity—­if you will be so good.”

Mr. Lind sat down, and said with condescension, “I am quite willing to listen to you.”

“Thank you,” said Conolly.  “Will you tell me what your objections are to my engagement with your daughter?”

“I had hoped, sir, that your common sense and knowledge of the world would have rendered an explanation superfluous.”

“They havnt,” said Conolly.

Mr. Lind rose to boiling point again.  “Oh, Mr. Conolly, I assure you I have no objection to explain myself:  none whatever.  I merely wished to spare you as far as possible.  Since you insist on my mentioning what I think you must be perfectly well aware of, I can only say that from the point of view of English society our positions are different; and therefore an engagement between you and any member of my family is unsuitable, and—­in short—­out of the question, however advantageous it might be to you.  That is all.”

Mr. Lind considered he had had the better of that, and leaned back in his chair more confidently.  Conolly smiled and shook his head, appreciative of the clearness with which Mr. Lind had put his case, but utterly unmoved by it.  He considered for a moment, and then said, weighing his words carefully: 

“Your daughter, with her natural refinement and delicate habits, is certainly not fit to be married to a foul-mouthed fellow, ignorant, dirty, besotted, and out of place in any company except at the bar in a public house.  That is probably your idea of a workman.  But the fact of her having consented to marry me is a proof that I do not answer to any such description.  As you have hinted, it will be an advantage to me in some ways to have a lady for my wife; but I should have no difficulty in purchasing that advantage, even with my present means, which I expect to increase largely in the course of some years.  Do you not underrate your daughter’s personal qualities when you assume that it was her position that induced me to seek her hand?”