“I shall grieve to lose Doll,” the old man slowly continued with perceptible signs of emotion.  “I shall grieve to lose my girl, but I am anxious to have the wedding over.  You see, Malcolm, of late I have noticed signs of wilfulness in Doll that can be more easily handled by a husband than by a father.  Marriage and children anchor a woman, you know.  In truth, I have opened my eyes to the fact that Doll is growing dangerous.  I’gad, the other day I thought she was a child, but suddenly I learn she is a woman.  I had not before noticed the change.  Beauty and wilfulness, such as the girl has of late developed, are powers not to be underestimated by wise men.  There is hell in them, Malcolm, I tell you there is hell in them.”  Sir George meditatively snuffed the candle with his fingers and continued:  “If a horse once learns that he can kick—­sell him.  Only yesterday, as I said, Doll was a child, and now, by Jove, she is a full-blown woman, and I catch myself standing in awe of her and calling her Dorothy.  Yes, damme, standing in awe of my own child!  That will never do, you know.  What has wrought the change?  And, after all, what is the change?  I can’t define it, but there has been a great one.”

He was in a revery and spoke more to himself than to me.  “Yesterday she was my child—­she was a child, and now—­and now—­she is—­she is—­Why the devil didn’t you take her, Malcolm?” cried the old man, awakening.  “But there, never mind; that is all past and gone, and the future Earl of Derby will be a great match for her.”

“Do you know the future Earl of Derby?” I asked.  “Have you ever seen him?”

“No,” Sir George replied.  “I hear he is rather wild and uncouth, but—­”

“My dear cousin,” said I, interrupting him, “he is a vulgar, drunken clown, whose associates have always been stable boys, tavern maids, and those who are worse than either.”

“What?” cried Sir George, hotly, the liquor having reached his brain.  “You won’t have Doll yourself, and you won’t consent to another—­damme, would you have the girl wither into spinsterhood?  How, sir, dare you interfere?”

“I withdraw all I said, Sir George,” I replied hastily.  “I have not a word to say against the match.  I thought—­”

“Well, damn you, sir, don’t think.”

“You said you wished to consult me about the affair, and I supposed—­”

“Don’t suppose either,” replied Sir George, sullenly.  “Supposing and thinking have hanged many a man.  I didn’t wish to consult you.  I simply wanted to tell you of the projected marriage.”  Then after a moment of half-maudlin, sullen silence he continued, “Go to bed, Malcolm, go to bed, or we’ll be quarrelling again.”

I was glad enough to go to bed, for my cousin was growing drunk, and drink made a demon of this man, whose violence when sober was tempered by a heart full of tenderness and love.