“But, Sir George,” I remonstrated, “I would not accept the hand of Dorothy nor of any woman unless she desired it.  I could not.  I could not.”

“If Doll consents, I am to understand that you accept?” asked Sir George.

I saw no way out of the dilemma, and to gain time I said, “Few men in their right mind would refuse so flattering an offer unless there were a most potent reason, and I—­I—­”

“Good! good!  I shall go to bed happy to-night for the first time in years.  The Rutlands will soon be out of my path.”

There is a self-acting retribution in our evil passions which never fails to operate.  One who hates must suffer, and Sir George for years had paid the penalty night and day, unconscious that his pain was of his own making.

Before we parted I said, “This is a delicate matter, with reference to Dorothy, and I insist that you give me time to win, if possible, her kindly regard before you express to her your wish.”

“Nonsense, nonsense, Malcolm!  I’ll tell the girl about it in the morning, and save you the trouble.  The women will want to make some new gowns and—­”

“But,” I interrupted emphatically, “I will not have it so.  It is every man’s sweet privilege to woo the woman of his choice in his own way.  It is not a trouble to me; it is a pleasure, and it is every woman’s right to be wooed by the man who seeks her.  I again insist that I only shall speak to Dorothy on this subject.  At least, I demand that I be allowed to speak first.”

“That’s all damned nonsense,” responded Sir George; “but if you will have it so, well and good.  Take your own course.  I suppose it’s the fashion at court.  The good old country way suits me.  A girl’s father tells her whom she is to marry, and, by gad, she does it without a word and is glad to get a man.  English girls obey their parents.  They know what to expect if they don’t—­the lash, by God and the dungeon under the keep.  Your roundabout method is all right for tenants and peasants; but among people who possess estates and who control vast interests, girls are—­girls are—­Well, they are born and brought up to obey and to help forward the interests of their houses.”  The old man was growing very drunk, and after a long pause he continued:  “Have your own way, Malcolm, but don’t waste time.  Now that the matter is settled, I want to get it off my hands quickly.”

“I shall speak to Dorothy on the subject at the first favorable opportunity,” I responded; “but I warn you, Sir George, that if Dorothy proves disinclined to marry me, I will not accept her hand.”

“Never fear for Doll; she will be all right,” and we parted.

Doll all right!  Had he only known how very far from “all right” Dorothy was, he would have slept little that night.

This brings me to the other change of which I spoke—­the change in Dorothy.  Change?  It was a metamorphosis.

A fortnight after the scene at The Peacock I accidentally discovered a drawing made by Dorothy of a man with a cigarro in his mouth.  The girl snatched the paper from my hands and blushed convincingly.