“I think it is quite likely, Mr. Sarrazin, that some dreadful misfortune will fall on my daughter, as the punishment of her undutiful disregard of her mother’s objections.  In that case, I shall feel it my duty to return and administer maternal consolation.  When you write, address me at my banker’s.  I make allowances for a lawyer, sir; I don’t blame You.”

She opened the door for the third time—­stepped out, and stepped back again into the room—­suddenly gave her daughter a fierce kiss—­returned to the door—­shook her fist at Mrs. Linley with a theatrically-threatening gesture—­said, “Unnatural child!”—­and, after this exhibition of her better nature, and her worse, left us at last.  When you visit the remarried pair on their return from their second honeymoon, take Mrs. Presty with you.

3.—­The Lawyer’s Last Word.

“When you force this ridiculous and regrettable affair on my attention” (I think I hear Mrs. Sarrazin say), “the least you can do is to make your narrative complete.  But perhaps you propose to tell me personally what has become of Kitty, and what well-deserved retribution has overtaken Miss Westerfield.”

No:  I propose in this case also to communicate my information in writing—­at the safe distance from home of Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

Kitty accompanies her father and mother to the Continent, of course.  But she insisted on first saying good-by to the dear friend, once the dear governess, whom she loves.  Randal and I volunteered to take her (with her mother’s ready permission) to see Miss Westerfield.  Try not to be angry.  Try not to tear me up.

We found Captain Bennydeck and his pretty secretary enjoying a little rest and refreshment, after a long morning’s work for the good of the Home.  The Captain was carving the chicken; and Sydney, by his side, was making the salad.  The house-cat occupied a third chair, with her eyes immovably fixed on the movements of the knife and fork.  Perhaps I was thinking of sad past days.  Anyway, it seemed to me to be as pretty a domestic scene as a man could wish to look at.  The arrival of Kitty made the picture complete.

Our visit was necessarily limited by a due remembrance of the hour of departure, by an early tidal train.  Kitty’s last words to Sydney bade her bear their next meeting in mind, and not be melancholy at only saying good-by for a time.  Like all children, she asks strange questions.  When we were out in the street again, she said to her uncle:  “Do you think my nice Captain will marry Syd?”

Randal had noticed, in Captain Bennydeck’s face, signs which betrayed that the bitterest disappointment of his life was far from being a forgotten disappointment yet.  If it had been put by any other person, poor Kitty’s absurd question might have met with a bitter reply.  As it was, her uncle only said:  “My dear child, that is no business of yours or mine.”

Not in the least discouraged, Kitty turned to me.  “What do you think, Samuel?”