Felix’s tongue obviously moved much faster than the imagination of his auditors; his eloquence, like the rocking of a boat in a deep, smooth lake, made long eddies of silence.  And he seemed to be pleading and chattering still, with his brightly eager smile, his uplifted eyebrows, his expressive mouth, after he had ceased speaking, and while, with his glance quickly turning from the father to the daughter, he sat waiting for the effect of his appeal.  “It is not your want of means,” said Mr. Wentworth, after a period of severe reticence.

“Now it ’s delightful of you to say that!  Only don’t say it ’s my want of character.  Because I have a character—­I assure you I have; a small one, a little slip of a thing, but still something tangible.”

“Ought you not to tell Felix that it is Mr. Brand, father?” Charlotte asked, with infinite mildness.

“It is not only Mr. Brand,” Mr. Wentworth solemnly declared.  And he looked at his knee for a long time.  “It is difficult to explain,” he said.  He wished, evidently, to be very just.  “It rests on moral grounds, as Mr. Brand says.  It is the question whether it is the best thing for Gertrude.”

“What is better—­what is better, dear uncle?” Felix rejoined urgently, rising in his urgency and standing before Mr. Wentworth.  His uncle had been looking at his knee; but when Felix moved he transferred his gaze to the handle of the door which faced him.  “It is usually a fairly good thing for a girl to marry the man she loves!” cried Felix.

While he spoke, Mr. Wentworth saw the handle of the door begin to turn; the door opened and remained slightly ajar, until Felix had delivered himself of the cheerful axiom just quoted.  Then it opened altogether and Gertrude stood there.  She looked excited; there was a spark in her sweet, dull eyes.  She came in slowly, but with an air of resolution, and, closing the door softly, looked round at the three persons present.  Felix went to her with tender gallantry, holding out his hand, and Charlotte made a place for her on the sofa.  But Gertrude put her hands behind her and made no motion to sit down.

“We are talking of you!” said Felix.

“I know it,” she answered.  “That ’s why I came.”  And she fastened her eyes on her father, who returned her gaze very fixedly.  In his own cold blue eyes there was a kind of pleading, reasoning light.

“It is better you should be present,” said Mr. Wentworth.  “We are discussing your future.”

“Why discuss it?” asked Gertrude.  “Leave it to me.”

“That is, to me!” cried Felix.

“I leave it, in the last resort, to a greater wisdom than ours,” said the old man.

Felix rubbed his forehead gently.  “But en attendant the last resort, your father lacks confidence,” he said to Gertrude.

“Have n’t you confidence in Felix?” Gertrude was frowning; there was something about her that her father and Charlotte had never seen.  Charlotte got up and came to her, as if to put her arm round her; but suddenly, she seemed afraid to touch her.