“I’m off to London to-morrow,” said Fellingham.  “I don’t want to go, for very particular reasons; I may be of more use there.  I have a cousin who’s a General officer in the army, and if I have your permission—­you see, anything’s better, as it seems to me, than that you should depend for peace and comfort on one man’s tongue not wagging, especially when he is not the best of tempers if I have your permission—­without mentioning names, of course—­I’ll consult him.”

There was a dead silence.

“You know you may trust me, sir.  I love your daughter with all my heart.  Your honour and your interests are mine.”

Van Diemen struggled for composure.

“Netty, what have you been at?” he said.

“It is untrue, papa!” she answered the unworded accusation.

“Annette has told me nothing, sir.  I have heard it.  You must brace your mind to the fact that it is known.  What is known to Mr. Tinman is pretty sure to be known generally at the next disagreement.”

“That scoundrel Mart!” Van Diemen muttered.

“I am positive Mr. Tinman did not speak of you, papa,” said Annette, and turned her eyes from the half-paralyzed figure of her father on Herbert to put him to proof.

“No, but he made himself heard when it was being discussed.  At any rate, it’s known; and the thing to do is to meet it.”

“I’m off.  I’ll not stop a day.  I’d rather live on the Continent,” said Van Diemen, shaking himself, as to prepare for the step into that desert.

“Mr. Tinman has been most generous!” Annette protested tearfully.

“I won’t say no:  I think you are deceived and lend him your own generosity,” said Herbert.  “Can you suppose it generous, that even in the extremest case, he should speak of the matter to your father, and talk of denouncing him?  He did it.”

“He was provoked.”

“A gentleman is distinguished by his not allowing himself to be provoked.”

“I am engaged to him, and I cannot hear it said that he is not a gentleman.”

The first part of her sentence Annette uttered bravely; at the conclusion she broke down.  She wished Herbert to be aware of the truth, that he might stay his attacks on Mr. Tinman; and she believed he had only been guessing the circumstances in which her father was placed; but the comparison between her two suitors forced itself on her now, when the younger one spoke in a manner so self-contained, brief, and full of feeling.

She had to leave the room weeping.

“Has your daughter engaged herself, sir?” said Herbert.

“Talk to me to-morrow; don’t give us up if she has we were trapped, it’s my opinion,” said Van Diemen.  “There’s the devil in that wine of—­Mart Tinman’s.  I feel it still, and in the morning it’ll be worse.  What can she see in him?  I must quit the country; carry her off.  How he did it, I don’t know.  It was that woman, the widow,