"That would be impossible," said Phyllis firmly.

"Would it?" said her father. "There is a stronger influence at work in most of us, at times, than religion. I wonder if it will make a victim of you, my child, though you did send George Holland about his business."

"I don't quite know what you mean," said Phyllis, with only the slightest possible flush.

And she did not know what he meant until six months had passed; but then she knew.

Seeing that she did not know what he meant, her father thanked Heaven that Heaven had given him a daughter who was unlike other daughters. He prayed that she might never become like other daughters. He thought that it would be good for his daughter to remain without experience of those overwhelming passions which make up the life of a woman and a man.

Phyllis went out a good deal during the week, and everywhere she found herself looked at with interest; sometimes she found herself being examined through a /pince-nez/ as if she were a curious specimen, and a woman or two smiled derisively at her. She did not know what was meant by their curiosity--their derision--until one day an old lady named Mrs. Haddon went up to her and kissed her, saying:

"I made up my mind that I would kiss you, my dear, the first chance I had. God bless you, my child! You have given your testimony as a woman should, in these days of scoffing at the truth."

"Testimony?" said Phyllis, quite puzzled. Had not her father felt a thrill of gratitude on reflecting that she had none of the qualities of the prig about her? "Testimony?"