‘You know we are all in the dark, papa,’ said she, thinking it expedient to change the conversation. ‘For anything we know, he may be at this moment engaged to Mrs Bold.’

‘Fiddlestick,’ said the father, who had seen the way in which Mrs Bold had got into the carriage, while his son stood apart without even offering her his hand.

‘Well, then, he must go to Carrara.’ said Charlotte.

Just at this moment the lock of the front door was heard, and Charlotte’s quick care detected her brother’s cat–like step in the hall. She said nothing, feeling that for the present Bertie had better keep out of her father’s way. But Dr Stanhope also heard the sound of the lock.

‘Who’s that?’ he demanded. Charlotte made no reply, and he asked again. ‘Who is that that has just come in? Open the door. Who is it?’

‘I suppose it is Bertie.’

‘Bid him to come here,’ said the father. But Bertie, who was close to the door and heard the call, required no further bidding, but walked in with a perfectly unconcerned and cheerful air. It was this peculiar insouciance which angered Dr Stanhope, even more than his son’s extravagance.

‘Well, sir,’ said the doctor.

‘And how did you get home, sir, with your fair companion?’ said Bertie. ‘I suppose she is not up–stairs, Charlotte?’

‘Bertie,’ said Charlotte, ‘papa is in no humour for joking. He is very angry with you.’

‘Angry!’ said Bertie, raising his eyebrows, as though he had never yet given his parent cause for a single moment’s uneasiness.

‘Sit down, if you please, sir,’ said Dr Stanhope very sternly, but not now very loudly. ‘And I’ll trouble you to sit down, too, Charlotte. Your mother can wait for her tea a few minutes.’

Charlotte sat down on the chair nearest the door, in somewhat of a perverse sort of manner; as much as though she would say—Well, here I am; you shan’t say I don’t do as I am bid; but I’ll be whipped if I give way to you. And she was determined not to give way. She too was angry with Bertie; but she was not the less ready on that account to defend him from his father. Bertie also sat down. He drew his chair close to the library table, upon which he put his elbow, and then resting his face comfortably on one hand, he began drawing little pictures on a sheet of paper with the other. Before the scene was over had had completed admirable figures of Miss Thorne, Mrs Proudie, and Lady De Courcy, and began a family piece to comprise the whole set of Lookalofts.

‘Would it suit you, sir,’ said the father, ‘to give me some idea as to what your present intentions are?—what way of living you propose to yourself?’

‘I’ll do anything you suggest, sir,’ said Bertie.

‘No, I shall suggest nothing further. My time for suggesting has gone by. I have only one order to give, and that is, that you leave my house.’

‘To–night?’ said Bertie; and the simple tone of the question left the doctor without any adequately dignified method of reply.

‘Papa does not quite mean to–night,’ said Charlotte, ‘at least I suppose not.’