temper which is consistent with clear perception of faults and foibles, which makes of them, indeed, an occasion for the added kindliness of indulgence, and which, on the other hand, leaves perfect freedom in judgment and action.  We know that it is for the most part a misfortune to be the son of a really great man, and for the reason that nature, so indifferent to the individual, makes the well-being of each generation mainly consist in early predominance over the generation which gave it birth.  Wilfrid suffered no such exceptional hardship.  At three-and-twenty he felt himself essentially his father’s superior.  He would not have exposed the fact thus crudely, for he was susceptible to the comely order of things.  The fact was a fact, and nature, not he, was responsible for it.  That, and the circumstance of his material independence, would necessarily keep the ensuing interview well within the limits of urbane comedy.  The young man smiled already at the suggested comparison with his father’s own choice in matrimony.  Wilfrid had never had the details of that story avowedly represented to him, but it was inevitable that he should have learnt enough to enable him to reconstruct them with tolerable accuracy.

Emily was gone long before the hour of luncheon.  After that meal, Mr. Athel lit a cigar and went to a favourite seat in the garden.  Mrs. Rossall was going with the twins to make a farewell call on neighbouring friends.  As soon as the carriage had left the house, Wilfrid sought his father, who was amusing himself with a review.

‘I thought you would have gone with your aunt,’ Mr. Athel remarked, after a glance to see who was approaching him.

‘I had an object in remaining behind,’ Wilfrid returned, composedly, seating himself on a camp-stool which he had brought out.  ’I wished to talk over with you a matter of some importance.’

‘Oh?’

Mr. Athel stroked his chin, and smiled a little.  It occurred to him at once that something relative to Beatrice was about to be disclosed.

‘What is it?’ he added, throwing one leg over the other, and letting the review lie open on his lap.

‘It concerns Miss Hood,’ pursued the other, assuming the same attitude, save that he had nothing to lean hack against.  ’A day or two ago I asked her to engage herself to me, and she consented.’

Perhaps this was the simplest way of putting it.  Wilfrid could not utter the words with complete calmness; his hands had begun to tremble a little, and his temples were hot.  By an effort he kept his eyes steadily fixed on his father’s face, and what he saw there did not supply encouragement to proceed in the genial tone with which he had begun.  Mr. Athel frowned, not angrily, but as if not quite able to grasp what had been told him.  He had cast his eyes down.

There was silence for a moment.

‘I have chosen the earliest moment for telling you of this,’ Wilfrid continued, rather hurriedly.  ’It was of course better to leave it till Miss Hood had gone.’