Hours after--or so it seemed to me--we reached the spot at which ourways divided. We stopped, and I felt as if I had been suddenly castback into the workaday world from some distant and pleasanter planet.

　　I think Phyllis must have felt much the same sensation, for we bothbecame on the instant intensely practical and businesslike.

　　"But about your father," I said.

　　"That's the difficulty.""He won't give us his consent?""I'm afraid he wouldn't dream of it.""You can't persuade him?""I can in most things, but not in this. You see, even if nothing hadhappened, he wouldn't like to lose me just yet, because of Norah.""Norah?""My sister. She's going to be married in October. I wonder if we shallever be as happy as they will.""Happy! They will be miserable compared with us. Not that I know whothe man is.""Why, Tom of course. Do you mean to say you really didn't know?""Tom! Tom Chase?""Of course."I gasped.

　　"Well, I'm hanged," I said. "When I think of the torments I've beenthrough because of that wretched man, and all for nothing, I don'tknow what to say.""Don't you like Tom?""Very much. I always did. But I was awfully jealous of him.""You weren't! How silly of you.""Of course I was. He was always about with you, and called youPhyllis, and generally behaved as if you and he were the heroine andhero of a musical comedy, so what else could I think? I heard yousinging duets after dinner once. I drew the worst conclusions.""When was that? What were you doing there?""It was shortly after Ukridge had got on your father's nerves, andnipped our acquaintance in the bud. I used to come every night to thehedge opposite your drawing-room window, and brood there by the hour.""Poor old boy!""Hoping to hear you sing. And when you did sing, and he joined in allflat, I used to swear. You'll probably find most of the bark scorchedoff the tree I leaned against.""Poor old man! Still, it's all over now, isn't it?""And when I was doing my very best to show off before you at tennis,you went away just as I got into form.""I'm very sorry, but I couldn't know, could I? I though you alwaysplayed like that.""I know. I knew you would. It nearly turned my hair white. I didn'tsee how a girl could ever care for a man who was so bad at tennis.""One doesn't love a man because he's good at tennis.""What /does/ a girl see to love in a man?" I inquired abruptly; andpaused on the verge of a great discovery.

　　"Oh, I don't know," she replied, most unsatisfactorily.

　　And I could draw no views from her.

　　"But about father," said she. "What /are/ we to do?""He objects to me.""He's perfectly furious with you.""Blow, blow," I said, "thou winter wind. Thou are not so unkind----""He'll never forgive you.""----As man's ingratitude. I saved his life. At the risk of my own.

　　Why I believe I've got a legal claim on him. Who ever heard of a manhaving his life saved, and not being delighted when his preserverwanted to marry his daughter? Your father is striking at the very rootof the short-story writer's little earnings. He mustn't be allowed todo it.""Jerry!"I started.

　　"Again!" I said.

　　"What?""Say it again. Do, please. Now.""Very well. Jerry!""It was the first time you had called me by my Christian name. I don'tsuppose you've the remotest notion how splendid it sounds when you sayit. There is something poetical, almost holy, about it.""Jerry, please!""Say on.""Do be sensible. Don't you see how serious this is? We must think howwe can make father consent.""All right," I said. "We'll tackle the point. I'm sorry to befrivolous, but I'm so happy I can't keep it all in. I've got you and Ican't think of anything else.""Try.""I'll pull myself together. . . . Now, say on once more.""We can't marry without his consent.""Why not?" I said, not having a marked respect for the professor'swhims. "Gretna Green is out of date, but there are registrars.""I hate the very idea of a registrar," she said with decision.

　　"Besides----""Well?""Poor father would never get over it. We've always been such friends.

　　If I married against his wishes, he would--oh, you know. Not let menear him again, and not write to me. And he would hate it all the timehe was doing it. He would be bored to death without me.""Who wouldn't?" I said.

　　"Because, you see, Norah has never been quite the same. She has spentsuch a lot of her time on visits to people, that she and father don'tunderstand each other so well as he and I do. She would try and benice to him, but she wouldn't know him as I do. And, besides, she willbe with him such a little, now she's going to be married.""But, look here," I said, "this is absurd. You say your father wouldnever see you again, and so on, if you married me. Why? It's nonsense.

　　It isn't as if I were a sort of social outcast. We were the best offriends till that man Hawk gave me away like that.""I know. But he's very obstinate about some things. You see, he thinksthe whole thing has made him look ridiculous, and it will take him along time to forgive you for that."I realised the truth of this. One can pardon any injury to oneself,unless it hurts one's vanity. Moreover, even in a genuine case ofrescue, the rescued man must always feel a little aggrieved with hisrescuer, when he thinks the matter over in cold blood. He must regardhim unconsciously as the super regards the actor-manager, indebted tohim for the means of supporting existence, but grudging him thelimelight and the centre of the stage and the applause. Besides, everyone instinctively dislikes being under an obligation which they cannever wholly repay. And when a man discovers that he has experiencedall these mixed sensations for nothing, as the professor had done, hiswrath is likely to be no slight thing.

　　Taking everything into consideration, I could not but feel that itwould require more than a little persuasion to make the professorbestow his blessing with that genial warmth which we like to see inour fathers-in-law's elect.

　　"You don't think," I said, "that time, the Great Healer, and so on--?

　　He won't feel kindlier disposed towards me--say in a month's time?""Of course he /might/," said Phyllis; but she spoke doubtfully.

　　"He strikes me from what I have seen of him as a man of moods. I mightdo something one of these days which would completely alter his views.

　　We will hope for the best.""About telling father----?""Need we, do you think?" I said.

　　"Yes, we must. I couldn't bear to think that I was keeping it fromhim. I don't think I've ever kept anything from him in my life.

　　Nothing bad, I mean.""You count this among your darker crimes, then?""I was looking at it from father's point of view. He will be awfullyangry. I don't know how I shall begin telling him.""Good heavens!" I cried, "you surely don't think I'm going to let youdo that! Keep safely out of the way while you tell him! Not much. I'mcoming back with you now, and we'll break the bad news together.""No, not to-night. He may be tired and rather cross. We had betterwait till to-morrow. You might speak to him in the morning.""Where shall I find him?""He is certain to go to the beach before breakfast for a swim.""Good. I'll be there."* * * * *"Ukridge," I said, when I got back, "I want your advice."It stirred him like a trumpet blast. I suppose, when a man is in thehabit of giving unsolicited counsel to everyone he meets, it is asinvigorating as an electric shock to him to be asked for itspontaneously.

　　"Bring it out, laddie!" he replied cordially. "I'm with you. Here,come along into the garden, and state your case."This suited me. It is always easier to talk intimately in the dark,and I did not wish to be interrupted by the sudden entrance of theHired Man or Mrs. Beale, of which there was............