“I think that she is the handsomest woman I ever saw,” Arthur replied, coldly.

“Ah!” said George, with a rude little laugh, “youth is always enthusiastic, especially when the object is of the dairymaid cut.”

There was something so intensely insolent in his host’s way of talking that Arthur longed to throw a dish at him, but he restrained his feelings, and dropped the subject.

“Let me see, you are only just home from India, are you?” asked George, presently.

“I got back at the beginning of last month.”

“And what were you doing there?”

“Travelling about and shooting.”

“Did you get much sport?”

“No, I was rather unfortunate, but I and another fellow killed two tigers, and went after a rogue elephant; but he nearly killed us.  I got some very good ibix-shooting in Cashmere, however.”

“What do you intend to do with yourself now?  Your education has been extravagantly expensive, especially the Cambridge part of it.  Are you going to turn it to any account?”

“Yes.  I am going to travel for another year, and then read for the Bar.  There is no particular object in being called too young, and I wish to see something more of the world first.”

“Ah!  I see, idleness called by a fine name.”

“Really I cannot agree with you,” said Arthur, who was rapidly losing his temper.

“Of course you can’t, but every man has a right to choose his own road to the dogs.  Come,” he added, with a smile of malice, as he noticed Arthur’s rising colour, “no need to get angry; you see I stand in loco parentis, and feel bound to express my opinion.”

“I must congratulate you on the success with which you assume the character,” answered Arthur, now thoroughly put-out; “but, as everything I have done or mean to do is so distasteful to you, I think it is a pity that you did not give me the benefit of your advice a little sooner.”

George’s only answer was a laugh, and presently the two parted, detesting each other more cordially than ever.

At half-past three, when George was still away, for he had gone out with his bailiff immediately after lunch, Philip and his daughter were shown into the drawing-room, where we may be sure Arthur was awaiting them.

“Mr. Caresfoot is not back yet,” said Arthur, “but I do not suppose that he will be long.”

“Oh! he will be here soon,” said Philip, “because I told him we were coming to call.  What sort of sport did you have?  What, none!  I am very sorry.  You must come and try again—­ah!  I forgot you are going away. by the way, Mr. Heigham, why should you go just yet?  If you are fond of fishing, and have nothing better to do, come and put up at the Abbey House for a while; we are plain people, but there is plenty of room, and you shall have a hearty welcome.  Would you care to come?”

It would have been amusing to any outsider to watch Angela’s face as she heard this astounding proposition, for nobody had been invited inside her father’s doors within her recollection.  It assumed first of all a look of blank amazement, which was presently changed into one of absolute horror.