’What nonsense are you talking, Carrie!  Why, you’re only a baby.  You oughtn’t to be thinking of any such things.’

Carrie shook her head resolutely.  ’I’m not a baby.  I’ve been in love with him more than a year.’

‘Upon my word!’ said Fenwick; ’who allowed you to be in love with him?  And has it never occurred to you—­lately—­that you’d have to ask my leave?’

Carrie hesitated.  ‘In Canada I wouldn’t have to,’ she said, at last, decidedly.

‘Oh! they’ve abolished the Fifth Commandment there, have they?’

‘No, no.  But the girls choose for themselves!’ said Carrie, tossing back her brown curls with the slightest touch of defiance.

Fenwick observed her, his brow clouding.

’And you suppose that I’m going to say “Yes” at once to this mad proposal?—­that I’m going to give you up altogether, just as I’ve got you back?  I warn you at once, I shall not consent to any such thing!’

There was silence.  Fenwick sat staring at her, his lips moving, angry sentences of authority and reproach forming themselves in his mind—­but without coming to speech.  It was intolerable, inhuman—­that at this very moment, when he wanted her most, this threat of fresh loss should be sprung upon him.  She was his—­his property.  He would not give her up to any Canadian fellow, and he altogether disapproved of such young love-affairs.

‘Father,’ said Carrie, after a moment, ’when George asked me—­we didn’t know—­’

‘About me?  Well, now you do know,’ said Fenwick, roughly.  ’I’m here—­and I have my rights.’

He put out his hand and seized her arm, looking at her, devouring her, in a kind of angry passion.

Carrie grew a little pale, and, coming nearer, she laid her head against his knee.

‘Father, you don’t understand what we propose.’

‘Well, out with it, then!’

’We wouldn’t think about being married for three years.  Why, of course we wouldn’t!  I don’t want to be all settled that soon.  And, besides, we’re going abroad—­you and mummy and I. I’m going to take you!’ She sat up, tossing her pretty head, her eyes as bright as stars.

’And be thinking all the time of the Canadian chap?—­bored with everything!’ growled Fenwick.

Carrie surveyed him.  A film of tears sparkled.

’I’m never bored.  Father!’—­she held herself erect, throwing all her soul into every word—­’George is—­awfully—­nice!’

Ah! the ‘life-force’!  There it was before him, embodied in this light, ardent creature, on whose brown head and white dress the June sun streamed through the sycamore-leaves.  With a groan—­suddenly—­Fenwick weakened.

‘What’s his horrid name?—­who is he?—­quick!’

Carrie gave a little crow—­and began to talk, sitting there on the grass, with her hands round her knees.  The interloper, it appeared, had every virtue and every prospect.  What was to be done?  Presently Carrie crept up to him again.