“What Dane is that?” I interrupted.  “Is his first name Stillman—­nephew of my old friend Harvey Dane, the publisher?  Because, if that’s so, I know him; about twenty-eight years old; good family, good head, good manners, good principles; just the right age and the right kind for Peggy—­a very fine fellow indeed.”

“That makes no difference,” continued Cyrus, fiercely.  “I don’t care whose nephew he is, nor how old he is, nor what his manners are.  My point is that Peggy positively shall not be pushed, or inveigled, or dragooned, or personally conducted into marrying anybody at all!  Billy and Alice were wandering around Charley’s garden last Friday night, and they report that Professor Dane was there with Peggy.  Alice says that she looked pale and drooping, ‘like the Bride of Lammermoor.’  There has been enough of this meddling with my little Peggy, I say, and I’m to blame for it.  I don’t know whether her heart is broken or not.  I don’t know whether she still cares for that fellow Goward or not.  I don’t know what she wants to do—­but whatever it is she shall do it, I swear.  She sha’n’t be cajoled off to Europe with Charles Edward and Lorraine to be flung at the head of the first professor who turns up.  I’ll do my duty by my little girl.  She shall stay at home and be free.  There has been too much interference in this family, and I’m damned if I stand any more; I’ll interfere myself now.”

It was not the unusual violence of the language in the last sentence that convinced me.  I had often seen religious men affected in that way after an over-indulgence in patience and mild behavior.  It was that ominous word, “my duty,” which made me sure that Talbert had settled down on the bed-rock of his conscience and was not to be moved.  Why, then, had he sent for me, I asked, since he had made up his mind?

“Well,” said he, “in the first place, I hadn’t quite made it up when I sent the telegram.  And in the second place, now that you have helped me to see absolutely what is right to do, I want you to speak to my wife about it.  She doesn’t agree with me, wants Peggy to go to Europe, thinks there cannot be any risk in it.  You know how she has always adored Charles Edward.  Will you talk to her?”

“I will,” said I, after a moment of reflection, “on one condition.  You may forbid Peggy’s journey, to-morrow morning if you like.  Break it off peremptorily, if you think it’s your duty.  But don’t give up her state-room on the ship.  And if you can be convinced between now and Saturday that the danger of interference with her young affections is removed, and that she really needs and wants to go, you let her go!  Will you?”