“At the back door, mum, with his coat tucked over his ears, and such a cold in his head.  Shall I show him in?”

“My life is a long misery, Jane,” Mrs. Rowe said, under her voice.

“La! mum, it’s quite safe.  I’m sure I shouldn’t trouble much about it—­’specially in this country, as——­”

“Silence!” Mrs. Rowe hissed.  The thorns in her cross consisted chiefly of Jane’s awkward attempts at consolation.  “The villain is bent on my ruin.  A bad boy he was; a bad man he is.  Show him in; and see that Francois doesn’t come here.  Get some coffee yourself, Jane, and bring it.  Let the brute in.”

“You’re hard upon him, mum, indeed you are.  I’m sure he’d be a credit to——­”

“Go, and hold your tongue.  You presume, Jane, on the privileges of an old servant.”

“Indeed I hope not, mum; but——­”

“Go!”

Jane went to summon the early visitor; and was heard talking amiably to him, as she led him to the bureau.  “Now, you must be good, Mr. Charles, to-day, and not stay more than a quarter of an hour.  Don’t talk loud, like the last time; promise me.  Missus means well—­you know she does.”

With an impatient “All right” the stranger pushed into the business parlour, and sharply closed the door.

Mrs. Rowe stood, her knuckles firmly planted upon the closed desk, her face rigidly set, to receive her visitor—­keeping the table between him and herself.  He was advancing to take her hand.

“Stand there,” she said, with an authority he had not the courage to defy.  He stood there—­abashed, or hesitating as to the way in which he should enter upon his business.

“Well!” Mrs. Rowe said, firmly and impatiently.

Mr. Charles, stung by the manner, turned upon his victim.  “Well!” he jeered, “yes, and well again, Mrs. Rowe.  Is it necessary for me to explain myself?  Do you think I have come to see you!”

“I have no money at present; I wrote you so.”

“And I didn’t believe you, and have come to fetch what you wouldn’t send.  If you think I’m going into a corner to starve for your personal satisfaction, you are very much mistaken.  I’m surprised you don’t understand me better by this time.”

“You were a rascal, Charles, before you left school.”

“School!  Pretty school!  D—­n it, don’t blame me—­woman!”

Mrs. Rowe was alarmed by the outburst, lest it should wake some of the boarders.

“The Dean and his lady are sleeping overhead.  If you don’t respect me, think——­”

“I’m not here to respect, or think about anybody.  I’m cast alone into the world—­tossed into it; left to shift for myself, and to be ashamed of myself; and I want a little help through it, and it’s for you to give it me, and give it me YOU SHALL.”

Mr. Charles held out his left hand, and slapped its open palm vehemently with his right—­pantomime to indicate the exact whereabouts he had selected for the reception of Mrs. Rowe’s money.