“Methought Sir Robert was Cecilia’s lover!  Why speak you to me of him, my father?”

Sir Richard rose to his feet in great perplexity, looking at his wife, who was pale and agitated.

“Cecilia’s lover—­what meanest thou, child?” he asked quickly.  “I was speaking to thee of thine own lover.  Sir Robert would fain wed with thee, and methought thou hadst already given him thy heart.”

“No—­no—­no!” cried Kate, shrinking yet further away.  “I had no thoughts of him.  O father, how couldst thou think it?  He is a kind friend; but I have thought him Cecilia’s knight, and I trow she thinks of him thus herself.”

Lady Frances now spoke to her daughter for the first time, fixing her eyes upon her, and addressing her with composure, although visibly struggling against inward agitation.

“Listen to me, daughter Kate.  Thou hast spoken words which, if they refer not to Sir Robert, as thy father and I believed, have need to be explained.  Thou hast spoken of loving and of being beloved; what dost thou mean by that?  Who is he that has dared—­”

“O mother, thou knowest that; thou hast heard it a hundred times.  It is Culverhouse, my cousin, who—­”

But Sir Richard’s face had clouded suddenly over.  He had set his heart on marrying Kate to his friend Sir Robert, who would, he believed, make her an excellent husband; and he had long ago given a half pledge to Lord Andover to thwart and oppose the youthful attachment which was showing itself between Kate and Culverhouse.  The Earl wished a grand match for his son, and the Trevlyn pride was strong in Sir Richard, who would never have had a daughter of his wed where she was not welcome.  He also disliked marriages between first cousins, and made of that a pretext for setting his face against the match, whilst remaining on perfectly friendly terms with the Viscount and all his family.  He had hoped and quite made up his mind that that boy-and-girl fancy had been laid at rest for ever, and was not a little annoyed at hearing the name of her cousin fall so glibly from Kate’s lips.

“Silence, foolish girl!” he said sternly.  “Hast thou not been told a hundred times to think no more of him?  How dost thou dare to answer thy mother thus?  Culverhouse! thou knewest well that he is no match for thee.  It is wanton folly to let thy wayward fancy dwell still on him.  Methought thou hadst been cured of that childish liking long since.  But if it has not been so, thou shalt soon be cured now!”

Kate shrank back, for her father had seldom looked so stern, and there was an inflexibility about his aspect that was decidedly formidable.  No one knew better than his favourite daughter that when once the limit of his forbearance was reached, there was no hope of any further yielding, and that he could be hard as flint or adamant; so it was with a look of terror in her eyes that she shrank yet further away as she asked: 

“What dost thou mean, my father? what dost thou mean?”