“Yes, sir,” said Dan.  “I haven’t thought since.”

“Well,” said his father, with an amusement which was not unfriendly.  He added, after a moment, “But I thought that had been broken off,” and Dan’s instinct penetrated to the lurking fact that his father must have talked the rupture over with his mother, and not wholly regretted it.

“There was a kind of—­hitch at one time,” he admitted; “but it’s all right now.”

“Well, well,” said his father, “this is great news—­great news,” and he seemed to be shaping himself to the new posture of affairs, while giving it a conditional recognition.  “She’s a beautiful creature.”

“Isn’t she?” cried Dan, with a little break in his voice, for he had found his father’s manner rather trying.  “And she’s good too.  I assure you that she is—­she is simply perfect every way.”

“Well,” said the elder Mavering, rising and pulling down the rolling top of his desk, “I’m glad to hear it, for your sake, Dan.  Have you been up at the house yet?”

“No; I’m just off the train.”

“How is her mother—­how is Mrs. Pasmer?  All well?”

“Yes, sir,” said Dan; “they’re all very well.  You don’t know Mr. Pasmer, I believe, sir, do you?”

“Not since college.  What sort of person is he?”

“He’s very refined and quiet.  Very handsome.  Very courteous.  Very nice indeed.”

“Ah! that’s good,” said Elbridge Mavering, with the effect of not having been very attentive to his son’s answer.

They walked up the long slope of the hillside on which the house stood, overlooking the valley where the Works were, and fronting the plateau across the river where the village of operatives’ houses was scattered.  The paling light of what had been a very red sunset flushed them, and brought out the picturesqueness which the architect, who designed them for a particular effect in the view from the owner’s mansion, had intended.

A good carriage road followed the easiest line of ascent towards this edifice, and reached a gateway.  Within it began to describe a curve bordered with asphalted footways to the broad verandah of the house, and then descended again to the gate.  The grounds enclosed were planted with deciduous shrubs, which had now mostly dropped their leaves, and clumps of firs darkening in the evening light with the gleam of some garden statues shivering about the lawn next the house.  The breeze grew colder and stiffer as the father and son mounted toward the mansion which Dan used to believe was like a chateau, with its Mansard-roof and dormer windows and chimneys.  It now blocked its space sharply out of the thin pink of the western sky, and its lights sparkled with a wintry keenness which had often thrilled Dan when he climbed the hill from the station in former homecomings.  Their brilliancy gave him a strange sinking of the heart for no reason.  He and his father had kept up a sort of desultory talk about Alice, and he could not have said that his father had seemed indifferent; he had touched the affair only too acquiescently; it was painfully like everything else.  When they came in full sight of the house, Dan left the subject, as he realised presently, from a reasonless fear of being overheard.