“I shall go after her.”

“If you do, you need not trouble to return.”

Nothing more was said, but anger filled the hearts of both mother and son.

CHAPTER IV.

“I expect my dear friend, Miss Fanshawe, in a few days, Harold.  I trust you will treat her becomingly.”

“One would think I was a bear just escaped from the Zoo.  Why should you fear discourtesy from me to any lady?”

“Because she is a friend of mine.  Of late you seemed disposed to run counter to me in every respect.”

“I have no such desire, I assure you,” said Harold, gravely; and there the matter ended.

The preparation for Miss Fanshawe’s reception could not have been more ambitious if she had been a royal princess.  With much reluctance Mrs. Purling eschewed triumphal arches and a brass band, but she redecorated the best bedroom, and sent two carriages to the station, although her guest could hardly be expected to travel in both.

“This is Miss Fanshawe,” said the heiress, with much emphasis—­“the Honourable Miss Fanshawe.”

“The Honourable Miss Fanshawe is only a very humble personage, not at all deserving high-sounding titles,” said the young lady for herself.  “My name is Phillipa—­to my friends, and as such I count you, dear Mrs. Purling; perhaps some day I may be allowed to say the same of your son.”

She spoke rapidly, with the fluent ease natural to a well-bred woman.  In the subdued light of the cosy room Harold made out a tall, slight figure, well set off by the tight-fitting ulster; she carried her head proudly, and seemed aristocratic to her finger-tips.

“I should have known you anywhere, Mr. Purling,” she went on, without a pause.  “You are so like your dear mother.  You have the same eyes.”

It was a wonder she did not use the adjective “sweet”; for her tone clearly implied that she admired them.

“I hear you are desperately and astoundingly clever,” she continued, like the brook flowing on for ever.  “They tell me your pamphlet on vivisection was quite masterly.  How proud you must be, Mrs. Purling, to hear such civil things said of his books!”

“Do you take sugar?” Harold asked, as he put a cup of tea into a hand exquisitely gloved.

She looked up at him sharply, but failed to detect any satire behind his words.

Harold thought that there was too much sugar and butter about her altogether.  Even thus early he felt antipathetic; yet, when they were seated at dinner, and had an opportunity of observing her at leisure, he could not deny that she was handsome, in a striking, queenly sort of way; but he thought her complexion was too pale, and, at times, when off her guard, a worn-out, harassed look came over her face, and a tinge of melancholy clouded her dark eyes.  But it was not easy to find her off her guard.  The unceasing strife of several seasons had taught her to keep all the world at sword-point; she was armed cap-a-pie, and ready always to fight with a clever woman’s keenest weapons—­her eyes and tongue.  Upon Harold she used both with consummate skill; it was clear that she wished to please him, addressing herself principally to him, asking his opinion on scientific questions, coached up on purpose, and listening attentively when he replied.