‘To–morrow perhaps,’ suggested Bertie.

‘Yes sir, to–morrow,’ said the doctor. ‘You shall leave this to–morrow.’

‘Very well, sir. Will the 4.30 P.M. train be soon enough?’ said Bertie, as he asked, put the finishing touch to Miss Thorne’s high–heeled boots.

‘You may go how and when and where you please, so that you leave my house to–morrow. You have disgraced me, sir; you have disgraced yourself, and me, and your sisters.’

‘I am glad at least sir, that I have not disgraced my mother,’ said Bertie.

Charlotte could hardly keep her countenance; but the doctor’s brow grew still blacker than ever. Bertie was executing his chef d’œuvre in the delineation of Mrs Proudie’s nose and mouth.

‘You are a heartless reprobate, sir; a heartless, thankless, good–for–nothing reprobate. I have done with you. You are my son—that I cannot help; but you shall have no more part or parcel in me as my child, nor I in you as your father.’

‘Oh, papa, papa! You must not, shall not say so,’ said Charlotte.

‘I will say so, and do say so,’ said the father, rising from his chair. ‘And now leave the room, sir.’

‘Stop, stop,’ said Charlotte; ‘why don’t you speak, Bertie? Why don’t you look up and speak? It is your manner that makes him so angry.’

‘He is perfectly indifferent to all decency, to all propriety,’ said the doctor; and then he shouted out, ‘Leave the room, sir! Do you hear what I say?’

‘Papa, papa, I will not let you part so. I know you will be sorry for it.’ And then she added, getting up and whispering into his ear. ‘Is he only to blame? Think of that. We have made our own bed, and, such as it is, we must lie on it. It is no use for us to quarrel among ourselves,’ and as she finished her whisper, Bertie finished off the countess’s bustle, which was so well done that it absolutely seemed to be swaying to and fro on the paper with its usual lateral motion.

‘My father is angry at the present time,’ said Bertie, looking up for a moment from his sketches, ‘because I am not going to marry Mrs Bold. What can I say on the matter? It is true that I am not going to marry her. In the first place—’

‘That is not true, sir,’ said Dr Stanhope; ‘but I will not argue with you.’

‘You were angry just this moment because I would not speak,’ said Bertie, going on with a young Lookaloft.

‘Give over drawing,’ said Charlotte, going up to him and taking the paper from under his hand. The caricature, however, she preserved, and showed them afterwards to the friends of the Thornes, the Proudies, and De Courcys. Bertie, deprived of his occupation, threw himself back in his chair and waited further orders.

‘I think it will certainly be for the best that Bertie should leave this at once, perhaps to–morrow,’ said Charlotte; ‘but pray, papa, let us arrange some scheme together.’

‘If he will leave to–morrow, I will give him £ 10, and he shall be paid £ 5 a month by the banker at Carrara as long as he stays permanently in that place.’

‘Well, sir! it won’t be long,’ said Bertie; ‘for I shall be starved to death in about three months.’

‘He must have marble to work with,’ said Charlotte.