afterwards, for a friendly consideration.  Van Diemen had joined the hunt.  Tinman could not mount a horse.  They had not quarrelled, but they had snapped about these and other affairs.  Van Diemen fancied Tinman was jealous of his wealth.  Tinman shrewdly suspected Van Diemen to be contemptuous of his dignity.  He suffered a loss in a loan of money; and instead of pitying him, Van Diemen had laughed him to scorn for expecting security for investments at ten per cent.  The bitterness of the pinch to Tinman made him frightfully sensitive to strictures on his discretion.  In his anguish he told his sister he was ruined, and she advised him to marry before the crash.  She was aware that he exaggerated, but she repeated her advice.  She went so far as to name the person.  This is known, because she was overheard by her housemaid, a gossip of Mrs. Crickledon’s, the subsequently famous “Little Jane.”

Now, Annette had shyly intimated to her father the nature of Herbert Fellingham’s letter, at the same time professing a perfect readiness to submit to his directions; and her father’s perplexity was very great, for Annette had rather fervently dramatized the young man’s words at the ball at Helmstone, which had pleasantly tickled him, and, besides, he liked the young man.  On the other hand, he did not at all like the prospect of losing his daughter; and he would have desired her to be a lady of title.  He hinted at her right to claim a high position.  Annette shrank from the prospect, saying, “Never let me marry one who might be ashamed of my father!”

“I shouldn’t stomach that,” said Van Diemen, more disposed in favour of the present suitor.

Annette was now in a tremor.  She had a lover; he was coming.  And if he did not come, did it matter?  Not so very much, except to her pride.  And if he did, what was she to say to him?  She felt like an actress who may in a few minutes be called on the stage, without knowing her part.  This was painfully unlike love, and the poor girl feared it would be her conscientious duty to dismiss him—­most gently, of course; and perhaps, should he be impetuous and picturesque, relent enough to let him hope, and so bring about a happy postponement of the question.  Her father had been to a neighbouring town on business with Mr. Tinman.  He knocked at her door at midnight; and she, in dread of she knew not what—­chiefly that the Hour of the Scene had somehow struck—­stepped out to him trembling.  He was alone.  She thought herself the most childish of mortals in supposing that she could have been summoned at midnight to declare her sentiments, and hardly noticed his gloomy depression.  He asked her to give him five minutes; then asked her for a kiss, and told her to go to bed and sleep.  But Annette had seen that a great present affliction was on him, and she would not be sent to sleep.  She promised to listen patiently, to bear anything, to be brave.  “Is it bad news from home?” she said, speaking of the old home where she had not left her heart, and where his money was invested.