your permission.'

'I do believe you. Of course I believe you.'

'But if I do that for you, papa, I think that you ought to be
very sure, on my account, that I haven't to bear such unhappiness
for nothing. You'll think about it, papa,--will you not, before
you quite decide?' She leaned against him as she spoke, and he
kissed her. 'Good night, now, papa. You will think about it?'

'I will. I will. Of course I will.'

And he began the process of thinking about it immediately,--
before the door was closed behind her. But what was there to
think about? Nothing that she had said altered in the least
his idea about the man. He was convinced as ever that unless
there was much to conceal there would not be so much concealment.
But a feeling began to grow upon him already that his daughter
had a mode of pleading with him which he would not ultimately be
able to resist. He had the power, he knew, of putting an end to
the thing altogether. He had only to say resolutely and
unchangeably that the thing shouldn't be, and it wouldn't. If he
could steel his heart against his daughter's sorrow for, say, a
twelvemonth, the victory would be won. But he already began to
fear that he lacked the power to steel his heart against his
daughter.



CHAPTER 6