When breakfast was over, and when Mr. Vanstone’s hand descended to his pocket in search of his cigar-case, Magdalen rose; looked significantly at Miss Garth; and followed her father into the hall.

“Papa,” she said, “I want to speak to you this morning—­in private.”

“Ay! ay!” returned Mr. Vanstone.  “What about, my dear!”

“About—­” Magdalen hesitated, searching for a satisfactory form of expression, and found it.  “About business, papa,” she said.

Mr. Vanstone took his garden hat from the hall table—­opened his eyes in mute perplexity—­attempted to associate in his mind the two extravagantly dissimilar ideas of Magdalen and “business”—­failed—­and led the way resignedly into the garden.

His daughter took his arm, and walked with him to a shady seat at a convenient distance from the house.  She dusted the seat with her smart silk apron before her father occupied it.  Mr. Vanstone was not accustomed to such an extraordinary act of attention as this.  He sat down, looking more puzzled than ever.  Magdalen immediately placed herself on his knee, and rested her head comfortably on his shoulder.

“Am I heavy, papa?” she asked.

“Yes, my dear, you are,” said Mr. Vanstone—­“but not too heavy for me.  Stop on your perch, if you like it.  Well?  And what may this business happen to be?”

“It begins with a question.”

“Ah, indeed?  That doesn’t surprise me.  Business with your sex, my dear, always begins with questions.  Go on.”

“Papa! do you ever intend allowing me to be married?”

Mr. Vanstone’s eyes opened wider and wider.  The question, to use his own phrase, completely staggered him.

“This is business with a vengeance!” he said.  “Why, Magdalen! what have you got in that harum-scarum head of yours now?”

“I don’t exactly know, papa.  Will you answer my question?”

“I will if I can, my dear; you rather stagger me.  Well, I don’t know.  Yes; I suppose I must let you be married one of these days—­if we can find a good husband for you.  How hot your face is!  Lift it up, and let the air blow over it.  You won’t?  Well—­have your own way.  If talking of business means tickling your cheek against my whisker I’ve nothing to say against it.  Go on, my dear.  What’s the next question?  Come to the point.”

She was far too genuine a woman to do anything of the sort.  She skirted round the point and calculated her distance to the nicety of a hair-breadth.

“We were all very much surprised yesterday—­were we not, papa?  Frank is wonderfully lucky, isn’t he?”

“He’s the luckiest dog I ever came across,” said Mr. Vanstone “But what has that got to do with this business of yours?  I dare say you see your way, Magdalen.  Hang me if I can see mine!”

She skirted a little nearer.

“I suppose he will make his fortune in China?” she said.  “It’s a long way off, isn’t it?  Did you observe, papa, that Frank looked sadly out of spirits yesterday?”