The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. At the same time he comprehended that she was as pure and lovely as the white orchid of Borneo and that she did not carry that ridiculous shield called false modesty. Jonathan stepped behind a curtain. She had trembled on the verge of such a resolution before, but this time quite definitely she made it. His instinct was in the direction of considering his daughters his absolute property, bound to obey him, his to give away or his to keep to be a comfort in his declining years just as he thought fit. The evenings were dulcet and soft. ‘Damnation!’ Confused, he released her, and in an instant she had darted away and was running down the garden. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return. “I wonder how it is,” she exclaimed, “that my friends have so much more confidence in me than I have in myself. That’s why I come to tell you.
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