“Well, what is it, then?” he asked, blankly.

“Why, Mr. Heigham, the fact is that we—­that is, my old nurse and I, for my father is irregular in his meals, and always takes them by himself—­live so very plainly, and I am ashamed to ask you to share our mode of life.  For instance, we have nothing but bread and milk for breakfast;” and the golden head sunk in some confusion before his amused gaze.

“Oh! is that all?” he said, cheerily.  “I am very fond of bread and milk.”

“And then,” went on Angela with her confession, “we never drink wine, and I know that gentlemen do.”

“I am a teetotaller, so that does not matter.”

“Really?”

“Yes—­really.”

“But then, you know, my father shuts himself up all day, so that you will have nobody but myself to talk to.”

“Oh! never mind”—­encouragingly.  “I am sure that we shall get on.”

“Well, if, in spite of all this and a great deal more—­ah! a very great deal that I have not time to tell you—­you still care to come, I will do my best to amuse you.  At any rate, we can read together; that will be something, if you don’t find me too stupid.  You must remember that I have only had a private education, and have never been to college like you.  I shall be glad of the opportunity of rubbing up my classics a little; I have been neglecting them rather lately, and actually got into a mess over a passage in Aristophanes that I shall ask you to clear up.”

This was enough for Arthur, whose knowledge of the classics was that of the ordinary University graduate; he turned the subject with remarkable promptitude.

“Tell me,” he said, looking her straight in the face, “are you glad that I am coming?”

The grey eyes dropped a little before the boldness of his gaze, but she answered, unhesitatingly,

“Yes, for my own sake I am glad; but I fear that you will find it very dull.”

“Come, Angela, we must be off; I want to be home by a quarter to six,” said Philip just then.

She rose at once and shook hands with Arthur, murmuring, “Good-by till to-morrow morning,” and then with Lady Bellamy.

George, meanwhile, with the most unwonted hospitality, was pressing her father to stay to dinner, and, when he declined, announcing his intention of coming over to see him on the morrow.  At last he got away, but not before Lady Bellamy had bid him a seemingly cordial adieu.

“You and your charming daughter must come and see me at Rewtham House, when we get in.  What, have you not heard that Sir John has bought it from poor Maria Lee’s executors?”

Philip turned pale as death, and hurried from the room.

“It is good,” reflected Lady Bellamy, as she watched the effect of her shaft, “to let him know that I never forget.”

But, even when her father had gone, the path was still blocked to Angela.

“What!” said George, who was, when in an amiable mood, that worst of all cads, a jocose cad, “are you going to play truant, too, my pretty cousin?  Then first you must pay the penalty, not a very heavy one, however.”  And he threw his long arm round her waist, and prepared to give her a cousinly embrace.