“Yes, your husband would be very angry, without doubt,” said Mrs. Basil, thoughtfully.

“That is not it.  I am afraid of the man himself.  He reminds me of that hateful creature—­what is he?—­in the opera, for which Mr. Aird gave us the tickets, and which Agnes went with us to see—­Mephistopheles.”

“What a strange fancy!  He is only a sour, pleasure-jaded man.  If I was not so ill I would speak to him myself; but you are right not to do so; that is your husband’s place, who has brought him here.  Let things be as they are till Friday.”

Harry sighed, but perforce assented.  Friday came, and Mr. Balfour went as he had designed, but not without stating at breakfast his intention of returning on the ensuing Monday or Tuesday at latest, and even making an engagement with Charley to spend the latter evening with him at the theatre.

“Do you happen to know when my husband will be home?” inquired Harry, timidly.

“No, madam.  He was good enough to say, however, that his absence was to make no difference as to my remaining here as his guest.”

This reply, which might easily have been made offensive, was delivered with the most studied courtesy:  it cut the hostess’s ground from under her; for it had answered the very objection which she had intended to imply.  She felt herself not only defeated, but reproved.

“Let us hope you will both return together,” said she.

“I do not think that very probable,” answered Mr. Balfour, slowly.

An hour later and he had departed, his hostess, under pretense of being engaged with her sick friend up stairs, not having so much as shaken his hand.  Charles, indignant at this slight, would have accompanied him to the railway station, but Balfour would not hear of it.  For this he had two reasons:  in the first place, he was anxious to keep his route secret; and secondly, it was a part of his system to give the young man no sort of trouble or inconvenience on his account.  He wished every association that linked them together to be one of pleasure.

Mrs. Basil, as we have said, had not made her appearance that morning below stairs; she was, in fact, no better, but rather worse:  that news from Lingmoor, outwardly borne so well, had shaken her to the core.  Still, no sooner had Balfour left than she made shift to rise, and even came down to dinner.  She discussed with Charley, who had a considerable regard for her, the character of their late guest—­not with hostility, as his mother was wont to do, but with the air of one who asks for information, and has confidence in the verdict which she seeks.  The lad, flattered by this implied compliment to his sagacity, answered her questions readily enough.  He praised his friend, of course, and thought he praised him even when he spoke ill of him.  He repeated his pungent sayings, and served up his anecdotes—­such of them as were adapted, at least, for the ears of the ladies—­anew.