“Cynthia, my dear,” he called. “Come outside and walk up and down a bit.”
She made some excuse about seeing to the things being cleared away. However she soon joined him.
“That nest of young thrushes is gone,” he said, peering into the ivy which hid the garden wall. “Some cat has found them, I expect. By the way, Cynthia, do you really intend to marry Herbert Raynier?”
“Why, what on earth do you mean, father?” she answered, resentment and astonishment being about evenly divided in her tone.
“Precisely what I say, dear—no more and no less. Because if you don’t you’re going the right way to work to let him see it.”
“If I don’t. But I do—of course I do. I can’t think what you’re driving at.”
“Oh, it’s simple enough. Couldn’t you manage now and then, if only for a change, to give him a civil word? Men don’t like to be perpetually found fault with and hauled over the coals,” pronounced the Vicar, speaking with some feeling, moved thereto by sundry vivid recollections of his own, for he was a widower. Cynthia coloured.
“But they require it—and—it’s only for their good,” she answered.
“No deadlier motive could be adduced,” returned her father, drily. “Because, you see, if you use the whip too much they’re apt to kick. And I descry symptoms of such a tendency on the part of Herbert I thought I’d give you a hint, that’s all. It would be a pity to lose him. His position is excellent and his prospects ditto; besides, he’s a thoroughly good fellow into the bargain.”