“Dawson’s rather a brute I fancy, when you’re not looking.”

“Dearest, I always am looking.”

“He must be one of Pearce’s lodgers.”

“Poor man, I’m sorry for him if he is.  Of all the shiftless women—­”

“The gentleman says, my lady,” said the servant reappearing with rather an awestruck face, “that he wishes to speak to you most particular.”

“James, did I not tell you to send him to Mr. Dawson?”

“I delivered the message, my lady.  But the gentleman says he’s seen Mr. Dawson, and that he”—­the footman coughed slightly—­“he don’t want to see any more of him, my lady.”

Lady Shuttleworth put on her glasses and stared at the servant.  “Upon my word he seems to be very cool,” she said; and the servant, his gaze fixed on a respectful point just above his mistress’s head, reflected on the extreme inapplicability of the adjective to anything so warm as the gentleman at the door.

“Shall I see him for you, mother?” volunteered Tussie briskly.

“You?” said his mother surprised.

“I’m rather a dab at German, you know.  Perhaps he can’t talk much English”—­the footman started—­“evidently he wasn’t able to say much to Dawson.  Probably he wants you to protect him from the onslaughts of old Pearce’s cockroaches.  Anyhow as he’s a foreigner I think it would be kinder to see him.”

Lady Shuttleworth was astonished.  Was Tussie going to turn over a new leaf after all, now that he was coming of age, and interest himself in more profitable things than verse-making?

“Dearest,” she said, quite touched, “he shall be seen if you think it kinder.  I’ll see him—­you haven’t done breakfast yet.  Show him into the library, James.”  And she gathered up her letters and went out—­she never kept people waiting—­and as she passed Tussie she laid her hand tenderly for a moment on his shoulder.  “If I find I can’t understand him I’ll send for you,” she said.

Tussie folded up his sonnet and put it in his pocket.  Then he ate a few spoonfuls of the stuff warranted to give him pure blood, huge muscles, and a vast intelligence; then he opened a newspaper and stared vacantly at its contents; then he went to the fire and warmed his feet; then he strolled round the table aimlessly for a little; and then, when half an hour had passed and his mother had not returned, he could bear it no longer and marched straight into the library.

“I think the cigarettes must be here,” said Tussie, going over to the mantelpiece and throwing a look of eager interest at Fritzing.

Fritzing rose and bowed ceremoniously.  Lady Shuttleworth was sitting in a straight-backed chair, her elbows on its arms, the tips of her ten fingers nicely fitted together.  She looked very angry, and yet there was a sparkle of something like amusement in her eyes.  Having bowed to Tussie Fritzing sat down again with the elaboration of one who means to stay a long while.  During his walk from the farm he had made up his mind to be of a most winning amiability and patience, blended with a determination that nothing should shake.  At the door, it is true, he had been stirred to petulance by the foolish face and utterances of the footman James, but during the whole of the time he had been alone with Lady Shuttleworth he had behaved, he considered, with the utmost restraint and tact.