for which he had more than once asked pardon. 

 But fair as things looked on the surface, all was not perfect even in this pleasant interior. The lady held herself stiffly, and her eyes rested rather more often than was courteous on the spatter-dashes. Secretly she thought her company not good enough for her, while the gentleman was frankly bored. Neither was finding the other as congenial as a first glance suggested, and it would have been hard to say which found Arthur’s entrance the more welcome interruption. 

 “Hallo, mother!” he said, stooping carelessly to kiss her. “Hallo, Clement.” 

 “My dear Arthur!” the lady cried, the lappets of her cap shaking as she embraced him. “How late you are! That horrid bank! I am sure that some day you will be robbed and murdered on your way home!” 

 “I! No, mother. I don’t bring the money, more’s the pity! I am late, am I? The worse for Clement, who has to ride home. But I have been doing your work, my lad, so you mustn’t grumble. What did you get?” 

 “A brace and a wood-pigeon. Has my father come?” 

 “Yes, he has come, and I am afraid has a wigging in store for you. But—a brace and a wood-pigeon? Lord, man,” with a little contempt in his tone, “what do you do with your gun all day? Why, Acherley told me that in that rough between the two fallows above the brook——” 

 “Oh, Arthur,” Mrs. Bourdillon interposed, “never mind that!” She had condescended sufficiently, she thought, and wished to hear no more of Clement Ovington’s doings. “I’ve something more important to tell you, much more important. I’ve had a shock, a dreadful shock to-day.” 

 She was a faded lady, rather foolish than wise, and very elegant: one who made the most of such troubles as she had, and the opening her son now heard was one which he had heard often before. 

 “What’s the matter now, mother?” he asked, stooping to warm his hands. 

 “Your uncle has been here.” 

 “Well, that’s no new thing.” 

 “But he has behaved dreadfully, perfectly dreadfully to me.” 

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