“You’ve come back,” he said quite cheerfully over Lewisham to Ethel.  There was a hint of falsetto in his voice.

“She has called to see her mother,” said Lewisham.  “You, I believe, are Mr. Chaffery?”

“I would like to know who the Deuce you are?” said Chaffery, suddenly tilting his head back so as to look through his glasses instead of over them, and laughing genially.  “For thoroughgoing Cheek, I’m inclined to think you take the Cake.  Are you the Mr. Lewisham to whom this misguided girl refers in her letter?”

“I am.”

“Maggie,” said Mr. Chaffery to Mrs. Chaffery, “there is a class of being upon whom delicacy is lost—­to whom delicacy is practically unknown.  Has your daughter got her marriage lines?”

“Mr. Chaffery!” said Lewisham, and Mrs. Chaffery exclaimed, “James!  How can you?”

Chaffery shut his penknife with a click and slipped it into his vest-pocket.  Then he looked up again, speaking in the same equal voice.  “I presume we are civilised persons prepared to manage our affairs in a civilised way.  My stepdaughter vanishes for two nights and returns with an alleged husband.  I at least am not disposed to be careless about her legal position.”

“You ought to know her better—­” began Lewisham.

“Why argue about it,” said Chaffery gaily, pointing a lean finger at Ethel’s gesture, “when she has ’em in her pocket?  She may just as well show me now.  I thought so.  Don’t be alarmed at my handling them.  Fresh copies can always be got at the nominal price of two-and-seven.  Thank you ...  Lewisham, George Edgar.  One-and-twenty.  And ...  You—­one-and-twenty!  I never did know your age, my dear, exactly, and now your mother won’t say.  Student!  Thank you.  I am greatly obliged.  Indeed I am greatly relieved.  And now, what have you got to say for yourselves in this remarkable affair?”

“You had a letter,” said Lewisham.

“I had a letter of excuses—­the personalities I overlook ...  Yes, sir—­they were excuses.  You young people wanted to marry—­and you seized an occasion.  You did not even refer to the fact that you wanted to marry in your letter.  Pure modesty!  But now you have come here married.  It disorganises this household, it inflicts endless bother on people, but never you mind that!  I’m not blaming you.  Nature’s to blame!  Neither of you know what you are in for yet.  You will.  You’re married, and that is the great essential thing.... (Ethel, my dear, just put your husband’s hat and stick behind the door.) And you, sir, are so good as to disapprove of the way in which I earn my living?”

“Well,” said Lewisham.  “Yes—­I’m bound to say I do.”

“You are really not bound to say it.  The modesty of inexperience would excuse you.”

“Yes, but it isn’t right—­it isn’t straight.”

“Dogma,” said Chaffery.  “Dogma!”

“What do you mean by dogma?” asked Lewisham.