“It is not exactly the same kind of work,” she said.

Dr Middleton rewarded her with a bushy eyebrow’s beam of his revolting humour at the baronet’s notion of work.

So little was needed to quicken her that she sunned herself in the beam, coaxing her father’s eyes to stay with hers as long as she could, and beginning to hope he might be won to her side, if she confessed she had been more in the wrong than she felt; owned to him, that is, her error in not earlier disturbing his peace.

“I do not say it is the same,” observed Sir Willoughby, bowing to their alliance of opinion.  “My poor work is for the day, and Vernon’s, no doubt, for the day to come.  I contend, nevertheless, for the preservation of health as the chief implement of work.”

“Of continued work; there I agree with you,” said Dr. Middleton, cordially.

Clara’s heart sunk; so little was needed to deaden her.

Accuse her of an overweening antagonism to her betrothed; yet remember that though the words had not been uttered to give her good reason for it, nature reads nature; captives may be stript of everything save that power to read their tyrant; remember also that she was not, as she well knew, blameless; her rage at him was partly against herself.

The rising from table left her to Sir Willoughby.  She swam away after Miss Dale, exclaiming:  “The laboratory!  Will you have me for a companion on your walk to see your father?  One breathes earth and heaven to-day out of doors.  Isn’t it Summer with a Spring Breeze?  I will wander about your garden and not hurry your visit, I promise.”

“I shall be very happy indeed.  But I am going immediately,” said Laetitia, seeing Sir Willoughby hovering to snap up his bride.

“Yes; and a garden-hat and I am on the march.”

“I will wait for you on the terrace.”

“You will not have to wait.”

“Five minutes at the most,” Sir Willoughby said to Laetitia, and she passed out, leaving them alone together.

“Well, and my love!” he addressed his bride almost huggingly; “and what is the story? and how did you succeed with old Vernon yesterday?  He will and he won’t?  He’s a very woman in these affairs.  I can’t forgive him for giving you a headache.  You were found weeping.”

“Yes, I cried,” said Clara.

“And now tell me about it.  You know, my dear girl, whether he does or doesn’t, our keeping him somewhere in the neighbourhood—­perhaps not in the house—­that is the material point.  It can hardly be necessary in these days to urge marriages on.  I’m sure the country is over . . .  Most marriages ought to be celebrated with the funeral knell!”

“I think so,” said Clara.

“It will come to this, that marriages of consequence, and none but those, will be hailed with joyful peals.”

“Do not say such things in public, Willoughby.”

“Only to you, to you!  Don’t think me likely to expose myself to the world.  Well, and I sounded Miss Dale, and there will be no violent obstacle.  And now about Vernon?”