‘Not at once, certainly.’

‘But at last?’

’What can you do, Duke?  If she be as firm as you, can you bear to see her pine away in misery?’

‘Girls do not do like that,’ he said.

’Girls and men are very different.  They gradually will yield to external influences.  English girls, though they become the most loving wives in the world, do not generally become so riven by an attachment as to become deep sufferers when it is disallowed.  But here, I fear, we have to deal with one who will suffer after this fashion.’

‘Why should she not be like others?’

’It may be so.  We will try.  But you see what she says in her letter to him.  She writes as though your authority were to be nothing in that matter of giving up.  In all that she says to me there is the same spirit.  If she is firm, Duke, you must yield.’

‘Never!  She shall never marry him with my sanction.’

There was nothing more to be said, and Lady Cantrip went her way.  But the Duke, though he could say nothing more, continued to think of it hour after hour.  He went down to the House of Lords to listen to a debate in which it was intended to cover the ministers with heavy disgrace.  But the Duke could not listen even to his own friends.  He could listen to nothing as he thought of the condition of his children.

He had been asked whether he could bear to see his girl suffer, as though he were indifferent to the sufferings of his child.  Did he not know of himself that there was no father who would do more for the welfare of his daughter?  Was he not sure of the tenderness of his own heart?  In all that he was doing was he governed by anything but a sense of duty?  Was it personal pride or love of personal aggrandisement?  He thought that he could assure himself that he was open to no such charge.  Would he not die for her,—­or for them,—­if he could so serve them?  Surely this woman had accused him most wrongfully when she had intimated that he could see his girl suffer without caring for it.  In his indignation he determined—­for a while—­that he would remove her from the custody of Lady Cantrip.  But then, where should he place her?  He was aware that his own house would be like a grave to a girl just fit to come into this world.  In this coming autumn she must go somewhere,—­with some one.  He himself, in his present state of mind, would be but a sorry travelling companion.

Lady Cantrip had said that the best hope of escape would lie in the prospect of another lover.  The prescription was disagreeable, but it had availed in the case of his own wife.  Before he had ever seen her as Lady Glencora McCloskie she had been desirous of giving herself and all her wealth to one Burgo Fitzgerald, who had been altogether unworthy.  The Duke could remember well how a certain old Lady Midlothian had first told him that Lady Glencora’s property was very large, and had then added that the