Dorinda laughed and gave way, although she still resented her father making money out of her marriage. But Mallien, being one of those men who is a curse to himself and to everyone around him, could not be treated in any other way, and could make himself very disagreeable when on his mettle. Besides, Dorinda knowing what Rupert's temper was when aroused, dreaded lest there should be an open quarrel. Mallien would certainly have come off worst in any encounter; but, as he was her father, she did not wish for such a contretemps. She and Rupert had been engaged for two years when Carrington came down to Barship, and hitherto all had gone smoothly. But a few days after the barrister's departure, Mallien began to make himself unpleasant. "I don't see why Rupert can't marry you next month," he said, fretfully, one morning at breakfast. "You've been engaged long enough."
"So we both think," replied Dorinda, who was pouring out the coffee, looking particularly fresh and charming in a white linen frock. "But you have always objected, you know."
"I don't wish to lose my daughter," growled the misanthrope, clutching at his black beard and scowling.
"That is very sweet of you, father, but you mustn't sacrifice five hundred a year for my society."
"What do you mean by that, you minx?"
"Is it so hard to understand?" asked Dorinda coolly.
"It's not what a daughter should say to a father."
"Well, you see, so much depends upon the sort of father one says it to."
"Honor your father and your mother," quoted Mallien, crossly.
"Parents, be mindful of your children," retorted the girl. "Oh, I can match you, quotation for quotation, if you like, father; I have been exercising my memory in this respect when talking to Mr. Carrington."