“‘Sir Willoughby!’” her father ejaculated in wrath.  “But will you explain what you mean, epitome that you are of all the contradictions and mutabilities ascribed to women from the beginning!  ‘Certainly’, he says, and knows no more than I. She begs grace for an hour, and returns with a fresh store of evasions, to insult the man she has injured.  It is my humiliation to confess that our share in this contract is rescued from public ignominy by his generosity.  Nor can I congratulate him on his fortune, should he condescend to bear with you to the utmost; for instead of the young woman I supposed myself to be bestowing on him, I see a fantastical planguncula enlivened by the wanton tempers of a nursery chit.  If one may conceive a meaning in her, in miserable apology for such behaviour, some spirit of jealousy informs the girl.”

“I can only remark that there is no foundation for it,” said Willoughby.  “I am willing to satisfy you, Clara.  Name the person who discomposes you.  I can scarcely imagine one to exist:  but who can tell?”

She could name no person.  The detestable imputation of jealousy would be confirmed if she mentioned a name:  and indeed Laetitia was not to be named.

He pursued his advantage:  “Jealousy is one of the fits I am a stranger to,—­I fancy, sir, that gentlemen have dismissed it.  I speak for myself.—­But I can make allowances.  In some cases, it is considered a compliment; and often a word will soothe it.  The whole affair is so senseless!  However, I will enter the witness-box, or stand at the prisoner’s bar!  Anything to quiet a distempered mind.”

“Of you, sir,” said Dr. Middleton, “might a parent be justly proud.”

“It is not jealousy; I could not be jealous!” Clara cried, stung by the very passion; and she ran through her brain for a suggestion to win a sign of meltingness if not esteem from her father.  She was not an iron maiden, but one among the nervous natures which live largely in the moment, though she was then sacrificing it to her nature’s deep dislike.  “You may be proud of me again, papa.”

She could hardly have uttered anything more impolitic.

“Optume; but deliver yourself ad rem,” he rejoined, alarmingly pacified.  “Firmavit fidem.  Do you likewise, and double on us no more like puss in the field.”

“I wish to see Miss Dale,” she said.

Up flew the Rev. Doctor’s arms in wrathful despair resembling an imprecation.

“She is at the cottage.  You could have seen her,” said Willoughby.

Evidently she had not.

“Is it untrue that last night, between twelve o’clock and one, in the drawing-room, you proposed marriage to Miss Dale?” He became convinced that she must have stolen down-stairs during his colloquy with Laetitia, and listened at the door.

“On behalf of old Vernon?” he said, lightly laughing.  “The idea is not novel, as you know.  They are suited, if they could see it.—­Laetitia Dale and my cousin Vernon Whitford, sir.”