“The meeting was not a pleasant one.  I shall take steps to make Mr. Conolly understand that.”

“Nothing approaching to violence, I trust.”

“No.  Mr. Conolly’s discretion averted it.  I am not sure that a second interview between us will end so quietly.”

“The interview should not have taken place at all, Sholto.  I need not point out to you that prudence and good taste forbid any repetition of it.”

“I did not seek it, Mr. Lind.  He forced it upon me.  I promise you that if a second meeting takes place, it will be forced upon him by me, and will take place in another country.”

“That is a young man’s idea, Sholto.  The day for such crimes, thank Heaven, is past and gone.  Let us say no more of it.  I was speaking to your mother on Sunday.  Have you seen her yet?”

“No.”

“Sholto, you hit us all very hard that Monday before Christmas.  I know what I felt about my daughter.  But I can only imagine what your mother must have felt about her son.”

“I am not insensible to that.  I has been rather my misfortune than my fault that I have caused you to suffer.  If it will gratify you to know that I have suffered deeply myself, and am now, indeed, a broken man, I can assure you that such is the case.”

“It is fortunate for us all that matters are not absolutely irremediable.  I will so far take you into my confidence as to tell you that I have never felt any satisfaction in Marian’s union with Mr. Conolly.  Though he is unquestionably a remarkable man, yet there was a certain degree of incongruity in the match—­you will understand me—­which placed Marian apart from her family whilst she was with him.  I have never entered my daughter’s house without a feeling that I was more or less a stranger there.  Had she married you in the first instance, the case would have been different:  I wish she had.  However, that is past regretting now.  What I wish to say is that I can still welcome you as Marian’s husband, even though she will have a serious error to live down; and I shall be no less liberal to her than if her previous marriage had never taken place.”

Douglas cleared his throat, but did not speak.

“Well?” said Mr. Lind after a pause, reddening.

“This is a very painful matter,” said Douglas at last.  “As a man of the world, Mr. Lind, you must be aware that I am not bound to your daughter in any way.”

“I am not speaking to you as a man of the world.  I am speaking as a father, and as a gentleman.”

“Doubtless your position as a father is an unfortunate one.  I can sympathize with your feelings.  But as a gentleman——­”

“Think of what you are going to say, Sholto.  If you speak as a gentleman, you can have only one answer.  If you have any other, you will speak as a scoundrel.”  The last sentence came irrepressibly to Mr. Lind’s lips; but the moment he had uttered it, he felt that he had been too precipitate.