At the thought of a lover for V.V. a sudden flood of anger poured across the old man’s mind, behind the still mask of his face.  It infuriated him even to think of V.V., his little V.V., his own girl, entertaining a lover, being possibly—­most shameful thought—­in love!  Like some ordinary silly female, sinking to kisses, to the deeds one could buy and pay for.  His V.V.!  The idea infuriated and disgusted him.  He fought against it as a possibility.  Once some woman in New York had ventured to hint something to him of some fellow, some affair with an artist, Caston; she had linked this Caston with V.V.’s red cross nursing in Europe....  Old Grammont had made that woman sorry she spoke.  Afterwards he had caused enquiries to be made about this Caston, careful enquiries.  It seems that he and V.V. had known each other, there had been something.  But nothing that V.V. need be ashamed of.  When old Grammont’s enquiry man had come back with his report, old Grammont had been very particular about that.  At first the fellow had not been very clear, rather muddled indeed as to how things were—­no doubt he had wanted to make out there was something just to seem to earn his money.  Old Grammont had struck the table sharply and the eyes that looked out of his mask had blazed.  “What have you found out against her?” he had asked in a low even voice.  “Absolutely nothing, Sir,” said the agent, suddenly white to the lips....

Old Grammont stared at his memory of that moment for a while.  That affair was all right, quite all right.  Of course it was all right.  And also, happily, Caston was among the dead.  But it was well her broken engagement with Lake had been resumed as though it had never been broken off.  If there had been any talk that fact answered it.  And now that Lake had served his purpose old Grammont did not care in the least if he was shelved.  V.V. could stand alone.

Old Grammont had got a phrase in his mind that looked like dominating the situation.  He dreamt of saying to V.V.:  “V.V., I’m going to make a man of you—­if you’re man enough.”  That was a large proposition; it implied—­oh! it implied all sorts of things.  It meant that she would care as little for philandering as an able young business man.  Perhaps some day, a long time ahead, she might marry.  There wasn’t much reason for it, but it might be she would not wish to be called a spinster.  “Take a husband,” thought old Grammont, “when I am gone, as one takes a butler, to make the household complete.”  In previous meditations on his daughter’s outlook old Grammont had found much that was very suggestive in the precedent of Queen Victoria.  She had had no husband of the lord and master type, so to speak, but only a Prince Consort, well in hand.  Why shouldn’t the Grammont heiress dominate her male belonging, if it came to that, in the same fashion?  Why shouldn’t one tie her up and tie the whole thing up, so far as any male belonging was concerned, leaving V.V. in all other respects free?  How could one do it?