“You have really come to practise here?” went on the father, still rather on his guard.

“I wanted sea-air.  The change will do me good,” replied Harold, rather evasively.  “I like the place, too.”

Not a doubt of it.  Harbridge was after his own heart, and so were some people who lived in it.  He found it so much to his taste that he declared within a week or two that he thought of remaining there altogether.  He would go into partnership with the local doctor; perhaps he had another partnership also in his eye.

“Can’t you see what’s going on under your nose, father?” asked Mrs. Driver.

“What do I care?  I shall not interfere.”

“Mrs. Purling will never give her consent.  Poor Doll!”

“That for Mrs. Purling and her consent!” said Mr. Driver, snapping his fingers.  “Doll is ever so much too good for them—­well, not for him; he is an honest, straightforward fellow:  but as for that selfish, silly, purse-proud old woman, she may thank Heaven if she gains a daughter like Doll.”

That this was not Mrs. Purling’s view of the question was plainly evident from a letter which awoke Harold rather rudely from his rosy dreams.

“So at length I have found you out, Harold.  I never dreamt you could be so deceitful and double-faced.  To talk of clinical lectures in town, and all the time at Harbridge, philandering with that forward, intriguing girl!  Only with the greatest difficulty have I succeeded in learning the truth.  Phillipa—­who, it seems, has known your secret all along, and to whom, I find, you have constantly written—­could not continue indifferent to my distress of mind.  Although she has shielded you so far with a magnanimity that is truly heroic, she has interposed at length only to save my life.

“I desire you will come to me at once.  Do not disobey me, Harold.  I am very seriously displeased, and will only consent to forgive the past when I find you ready to bend your stubborn heart to obey my will.”

Harold started at once for home.  He hoped rather against hope that he might talk his mother over; but her aspect was not encouraging when he met her face to face.

No tragedy-queen could have assumed more scorn.  Mrs. Purling, having thrown herself into several attitudes, fell at length into a chair.

“I never thought it,” she said; “not from my own and only child.  The serpent’s tooth hath not such fangs, such power to sting, as the base ingratitude of one undutiful boy.  But this fills the cup.  I have done with you—­for ever, unless you give me your sacred word of honour now, at this minute, never to speak to Dolly Driver again.”

“Such a promise would be quite impossible under any circumstances, but I distinctly refuse to give it—­upon compulsion.”

“Then you have fair warning.  Not one penny of my money shall you ever possess.  I will never see you again.”

“I sincerely trust the last is only an empty threat, my dearest mother.”