“And here,” said Willoughby, “is my hand.”

Clara recoiled.

He stepped on.  Her father frowned.  She lifted both her hands from the shrinking elbows, darted a look of repulsion at her pursuer, and ran to her father, crying:  “Call it my mood!  I am volatile, capricious, flighty, very foolish.  But you see that I attach a real meaning to it, and feel it to be binding:  I cannot think it an empty ceremony, if it is before you.  Yes, only be a little considerate to your moody girl.  She will be in a fitter state in a few hours.  Spare me this moment; I must collect myself.  I thought I was free; I thought he would not press me.  If I give my hand hurriedly now, I shall, I know, immediately repent it.  There is the picture of me!  But, papa, I mean to try to be above that, and if I go and walk by myself, I shall grow calm to perceive where my duty lies . . .”

“In which direction shall you walk?” said Willoughby.

“Wisdom is not upon a particular road,” said Dr. Middleton.

“I have a dread, sir, of that one which leads to the railway-station.”

“With some justice!” Dr. Middleton sighed over his daughter.

Clara coloured to deep crimson:  but she was beyond anger, and was rather gratified by an offence coming from Willoughby.

“I will promise not to leave his grounds, papa.”

“My child, you have threatened to be a breaker of promises.”

“Oh!” she wailed.  “But I will make it a vow to you.”

“Why not make it a vow to me this moment, for this gentleman’s contentment, that he shall be your husband within a given period?”

“I will come to you voluntarily.  I burn to be alone.”

“I shall lose her,” exclaimed Willoughby, in heartfelt earnest.

“How so?” said Dr. Middleton.  “I have her, sir, if you will favour me by continuing in abeyance.—­You will come within an hour voluntarily, Clara; and you will either at once yield your hand to him or you will furnish reasons, and they must be good ones, for withholding it.”

“Yes, papa.”

“You will?”

“I will.”

“Mind, I say reasons.”

“Reasons, papa.  If I have none . . .”

“If you have none that are to my satisfaction, you implicitly and instantly, and cordially obey my command.”

“I will obey.”

“What more would you require?” Dr. Middleton bowed to Sir Willoughby in triumph.

“Will she. . .”

“Sir!  Sir!”

“She is your daughter, sir.  I am satisfied.”

“She has perchance wrestled with her engagement, as the aboriginals of a land newly discovered by a crew of adventurous colonists do battle with the garments imposed on them by our considerate civilization;—­ ultimately to rejoice with excessive dignity in the wearing of a battered cocked-hat and trowsers not extending to the shanks:  but she did not break her engagement, sir; and we will anticipate that, moderating a young woman’s native wildness, she may, after the manner of my comparison, take a similar pride in her fortune in good season.”