“You special pleader!  May you win over my father; but you must remember that we are a fallen house, unable to do all we wish.”

“If I might see Sir Harry!  I must make him forgive me.”

“I will see whether he is ready.”

Could Frank’s eyes have penetrated the walls, he would have seen Lady Tyrrell received with the words, “Well, my dear, I hope you have got rid of the young man—­poor fellow!”

“I am afraid that cannot be done without your seeing him yourself.”

“Hang it!  I hate it!  I can’t abide it, Camilla.  He’s a nice lad, though he is his mother’s son; and Lenore’s heart is set on him, and I can’t bear vexing the child.”

“Lena cares for him only because she met him before she knew what life is like.  After one season she will understand what five hundred a year means.”

“Well, you ought to know your sister best; but if the lad has spoken to her, Lena is not the girl to stand his getting his conge so decidedly.”

“Exactly; it would only lead to heroics, and deepen the mischief.”

“Hang it!  Then what do you want me to say?”

“Stand up for your rights, and reduce him to submission by displeasure at not having been consulted.  Then explain how there can be no engagement at once; put him on his honour to leave her free till after her birthday in November.”

“What! have him dangling after her?  That’s no way to make her forget him.”

“She never will under direct opposition—­she is too high-spirited for that; but if we leave it alone, and they are unpledged, there is a fair chance of her seeing the folly both for her and for him.”

“I don’t know that.  Lena may be high-flown; but things go deep with the child—­deeper than they did with you, Camilla!”

Perhaps this was a stab, for there was bitterness in the answer.  “You mean that she is less willing to give up a fancy for the family good.  Remember, it is doubly imperative that Lena should marry a man whose means are in his own power, so that he could advance something.  This would be simply ruin—­throwing up the whole thing, after all I have done to retrieve our position.”

“After all, Camilla, I am growing an old man, and poor Tom is gone.  I don’t know that the position is worth so much to me as the happiness to her, poor child!” said Sir Harry, wistfully.

“Happiness!” was the scornful answer.  “If you said ‘her own way,’ it would be nearer the truth.  A back street in London—­going about in a cab—­and occasional holidays on sufferance from Mrs. Poynsett.”

However little happiness either father or daughter had derived from their chosen ways, this idea was abhorrent to both; and Lady Tyrrell pressed her advantage.  “If we keep him waiting much longer he will be rushing after Lena, and if you show the least sign of relenting he will insist on dragging you to an interview with his mother.”