This was too much for Lady Shuttleworth.  “Really—­” she said, stretching out her hand to the bell.

“Didn’t I tell you so, mother?” cried Tussie triumphantly; and that Tussie, her own dear boy, should in all things second this madman completely overwhelmed her.  “I knew he was a brute behind your back.  Let’s sack him.”

“James, show this gentleman out.”

“Pardon me, madam, we have not yet arranged—­”

“Oh,” interrupted Tussie, “the business part can be arranged between you and me without bothering my mother.  I’ll come part of the way with you and we’ll talk it over.  You’re absolutely right about Dawson.  He’s an outrageous mixture of bully and brute.”  And he hurried into the hall to fetch his cap, humming O dear unknown One with the stern sweet face, which was the first line of his sonnet in praise of Priscilla, to a cheerful little tune of his own.

“Tussie, it’s so damp,” cried his anxious mother after him—­“you’re not really going out in this nasty Scotch mist?  Stay in, and I’ll leave you to settle anything you like.”

“Oh, it’s a jolly morning for a walk,” called back Tussie gaily, searching about for his cap—­“And eyes all beautiful with strenuous thought—­Come on, sir.”

But Fritzing would not skimp any part of his farewell ceremonies.

“Permit me, madam,” he said, deeply bowing, “to thank you for your extremely kind reception.”

“Kind?” echoed Lady Shuttleworth, unable to stop herself from smiling.

“Yes, madam, kind, and before all things patient.”

“Yes, I do think I’ve been rather patient,” agreed Lady Shuttleworth, smiling again.

“And let me,” proceeded Fritzing, “join to my thanks my congratulations on your possession of so unusually amiable and promising a son.”

“Come on, sir—­you’ll make me vain,” said Tussie, in the doorway—­“‘Hair like a web divine wherein is caught,’”—­he hummed, getting more and more shrill and happy.

Lady Shuttleworth put out her hand impulsively.  Fritzing took it, bent over it, and kissed it with much respect.

“A most unusually promising young man,” he repeated; “and, madam, I can tell you it is not my habit to say a thing I do not mean.”

“‘The last reflection of God’s daily grace’”—­chirped Tussie, looking on much amused.

“No, that I’m quite certain you don’t,” said Lady Shuttleworth with conviction.

“Don’t say too many nice things about me,” advised Tussie.  “My mother will swallow positively anything.”

But nevertheless he was delighted; for here were his mother and the uncle—­the valuable and highly to be cherished uncle—­looking as pleased as possible with each other, and apparently in the fairest way to becoming fast friends.

IX