instinctive notion that her father would think her an arrant fool for
delaying so grand a triumph as her marriage with a man of fortune and
position. Had he not often spoken to her wistfully of her beauty, and the
dim hope that her handsome face might some day win her a rich husband?

'It's a poor chance at the best,' he told her. 'The days of the Miss
Gunnings have gone by. The world has grown commercial. Nowadays money
marries money.'

And this chance, which her father had speculated upon despondently as a
remote contingency, was now at her feet. Was she to spurn it, and then go
back to the shabby little villa near Dieppe, and expect to be praised for
her filial duty?

While she wavered, Brian urged every argument which a lover could bring
to aid his suit. To-morrow they might be married, and in the meanwhile
Ida could be safely and comfortably housed with the good woman at the
lock-house. Brian would give up his lodgings to her, and would stay at
the hotel at Chertsey. Ida listened, and hesitated: before her lay the
dry, dusty road, the solitary journey by land and sea, the doubtful
welcome at home. And here by her side stood the wealthy lover, the very
embodiment of protecting power--is not every girl's first lover in her
eyes as Olympian Jove?--eager to take upon himself the burden of her
life, to make her footsteps easy.

'Step into the boat, dearest,' he said; 'I know your heart has decided
for me. You are not afraid to trust me, Ida?'

'Afraid? no,' she answered, frankly, looking at him with heavenly
confidence in her large dark eyes; 'I am only afraid of doing wrong.'