“Then you are willing to be her daughter?”

“I have tried hard, and she is very kind; but I am far too dull and ignorant for her.  I can only wait upon her; but when she has you and Julius to talk to, my stupidity will not matter.”

“Would you be content to devote yourself to her, instead of making a home of our own?”

“She can’t be left alone in that great house.”

“The question is, can you be happy in it? or do you wish for a house to ourselves?”

“You don’t, Miles, it is your own home.”

“That’s not the question.”

“Miles, why do you look at me so?”

“I was told to ascertain your wishes.”

“I don’t wish anything—­now I have you—­but to be a comfort to your mother.  That is my first earthly wish just now.”

“If that be earthly, it has a touch of the heavenly,” muttered Miles to himself.  “You will make it clear to mother then that you like to go on with her?”

“If she does not mind having me.”

“And Julius says it really cheered our dear Raymond to think you would be the one to look after her!  But that’s not all, Nanny, I’ve only till to-morrow to decide whether I am to be Member for Wil’sbro’.”

“Is that a duty?”

“Not such a duty as to bind me if it were altogether repugnant to you.  I was not brought up for it, and may be a mere stop-gap, but it is every man’s duty to come to the front when he is called for, and do his utmost for his country in Parliament, I suppose, as much as in action.”

“I see; but it would be leaving your mother alone a great deal.”

“Not necessarily.  You could stay here part of the time, and I go backwards and forwards, as Raymond did before his marriage.”

“It would be better than your being at sea.”

“But remember,” he added, “there is much that can’t be shirked.  I don’t mean currying popularity, but if one is in that position, there’s no shutting oneself up.  It becomes a duty to keep society going, and give it the sort of tone that a nice woman can do.  Do you see?”

“I think I do.  Julius said so once.”

“So if we are to have such tears and despair as there were about the ball in the Chimaera, then—­”

“I was wrong then,” said Anne.  “I did not behave at all well to you all that time, dear Miles; I have been sorry for it ever since I understood.”

“It was not you, little one, it was Mr. Pilgrim.”

“No, it was not Mr. Pilgrim who made me cross.”

“Yes, it was.  He exacted pledges that he had no right to lay on your conscience, and your poor little conscience was in terrible straits, and I was too angry to feel for it.  Never mind all that; you have done with the fellow, and understand better now.”

“He thought he was right, and that only such abstinence could guard me.  And, Miles, a promise is a promise, and I do not think I ought to dance or play at cards.  It is not that I think them wrong for others, but I cannot break my word.  Except those—­I will do whatever is fitting for your wife.”