“I don’t like it, Ida.  It seems to me to be so very indelicate.”

“But it is needed to clinch the matter.  No, no, there is no drawing back now, Clara, or we shall ruin everything.  Papa is sure to come back by the 9:45.  He will reach the door at 10.  We must have everything ready for him.  Now, just sit down at once, and ask Harold to come at nine o’clock, and I shall do the same to Charles.”

The two invitations were dispatched, received and accepted.  Harold was already a confidant, and he understood that this was some further development of the plot.  As to Charles, he was so accustomed to feminine eccentricity, in the person of his aunt, that the only thing which could surprise him would be a rigid observance of etiquette.  At nine o’clock they entered the dining-room of Number 2, to find the master of the house absent, a red-shaded lamp, a snowy cloth, a pleasant little feast, and the two whom they would have chosen, as their companions.  A merrier party never met, and the house rang with their laughter and their chatter.

“It is three minutes to ten,” cried Clara, suddenly, glancing at the clock.

“Good gracious!  So it is!  Now for our little tableau!” Ida pushed the champagne bottles obtrusively forward, in the direction of the door, and scattered oyster shells over the cloth.

“Have you your pipe, Charles?”

“My pipe!  Yes.”

“Then please smoke it.  Now don’t argue about it, but do it, for you will ruin the effect otherwise.”

The large man drew out a red case, and extracted a great yellow meerschaum, out of which, a moment later, he was puffing thick wreaths of smoke.  Harold had lit a cigar, and both the girls had cigarettes.

“That looks very nice and emancipated,” said Ida, glancing round.  “Now I shall lie on this sofa.  So!  Now, Charles, just sit here, and throw your arm carelessly over the back of the sofa.  No, don’t stop smoking.  I like it.  Clara, dear, put your feet upon the coal-scuttle, and do try to look a little dissipated.  I wish we could crown ourselves with flowers.  There are some lettuces on the sideboard.  Oh dear, here he is!  I hear his key.”  She began to sing in her high, fresh voice a little snatch from a French song, with a swinging tra la-la chorus.

The Doctor had walked home from the station in a peaceable and relenting frame of mind, feeling that, perhaps, he had said too much in the morning, that his daughters had for years been models in every way, and that, if there had been any change of late, it was, as they said themselves, on account of their anxiety to follow his advice and to imitate Mrs. Westmacott.  He could see clearly enough now that that advice was unwise, and that a world peopled with Mrs. Westmacotts would not be a happy or a soothing one.  It was he who was, himself, to blame, and he was grieved by the thought that perhaps his hot words had troubled and saddened his two girls.