He was a small and precise man in his body and face, as well as in his dress; his costume was, of course, of black; but he went so far as to wear black buckles, too, on his shoes, and a black hilt on his sword.  His face was little and anxious; his eyebrows were perpetually arched, as if in appeal, and he was accustomed, when in deep thought, to move his lips as if in a motion of tasting.  So, then, he sat before his fire to-day after dinner, his elbow on the table where his few books lay, his feet crossed before him, his cup of drink untouched at his side; and meantime he tasted continually with his lips, as if better to appreciate the values and significances of the points for his consideration.

* * * * *

It would be about half an hour later that the door opened once more and Marjorie came in again.

She was in her fine dress to-day—­fine, that is, according to the exigencies of the time and place, though sober enough if for a town-house—­in a good blue silk, rather dark, with a little ruff, with lace ruffles at her wrists, and a quilted petticoat, and silver buckles.  For she was a gentleman’s daughter, quite clearly, and not a yeoman’s, and she must dress to her station.  Her face was very pale and quite steady.  She stood opposite her father.

“Father,” she said, “I am very sorry for having behaved like a goose.  You were quite right to ask those questions, and I have come back to answer them.”

He had ceased tasting as she came in.  He looked at her timidly and yet with an attempt at severity.  He knew what was due from him as a father.  But for the present he had forgotten what questions they were; his mind had been circling so wildly.

“You are right to come back,” he said, “you should not have left me so.”

“I am very sorry,” she said again.

“Well, then—­you tell me that Mr. Robin has nowhere else to go.”

She flushed a little.

“He has ten places to go to.  He has plenty of friends.  But none have the right that we have.  He is a neighbour; it was to me, first of all, that he told the trouble.”

Then he remembered.

“Sit down,” he said.  “I must understand much better first.  I do not understand why he came to you first.  Why not, if he must come to this house at all—­why not to me?  I like the lad; he knows that well enough.”

He spoke with an admirable dignity, and began to feel more happy in consequence.

She had sat down as he told her, on the other side of the table; but he could not see her face.

“It would have been better if he had, perhaps,” she said.  “But—­”

“Yes?  What ‘But’ is that?”

Then she faced him, and her eyes were swimming.

“Father, he told me first because he loves me, and because I love him.”

He sat up.  This was speaking outright what she had only hinted at before.  She must have been gathering her resolution to say this, while she had been gone.  Perhaps she had been with her mother.  In that case he must be cautious....