We are running ahead, however, of Bob’s reflections in Mr. Merrill’s parlor in Mount Vernon Street, and the ceremony of showing him the cities of his world from Brampton hill was yet to be gone through.  Bob knew his father’s plans only in a general way, but in the past week he had come to know his father with a fair amount of thoroughness.  If Isaac D. Worthington had but chosen a worldly wife, he might have had a more worldly son.  As it was, Bob’s thoughts were a little bitter when Cynthia spoke of his father, and he tried to think instead what his mother would have him do.  He could not, indeed, speak of Mr. Worthington’s shortcomings as he understood them, but he answered Cynthia vigorously enough—­even if his words were not as serious as she desired.

“I tell you I am old enough to judge for myself, Cynthia,” said he, “and I intend to judge for myself.  I don’t pretend to be a paragon of virtue, but I have a kind of a conscience which tells me when I am doing wrong, if I listen to it.  I have not always listened to it.  It tells me I’m doing right now, and I mean to listen to it.”

Cynthia could not but think there was very little self-denial attached to this.  Men are not given largely to self-denial.

“It is easy enough to listen to your conscience when you think it impels you to do that which you want to do, Bob,” she answered, laughing at his argument in spite of herself.

“Are you wicked?” he demanded abruptly.

“Why, no, I don’t think I am,” said Cynthia, taken aback.  But she corrected herself swiftly, perceiving his bent.  “I should be doing wrong to let you come here.”

He ignored the qualification.

“Are you vain and frivolous?”

She remembered that she had looked in the glass before she had come down to him, and bit her lip.

“Are you given over to idle pursuits, to leading young men from their occupations and duties?”

“If you’ve come here to recite the Blue Laws,” said she, laughing again, “I have something better to do than to listen to them.”

“Cynthia,” he cried, “I’ll tell you what you are.  I’ll draw your character for you, and then, if you can give me one good reason why I should not associate with you, I’ll go away and never come back.”

“That’s all very well,” said Cynthia, “but suppose I don’t admit your qualifications for drawing my character.  And I don’t admit them, not for a minute.”

“I will draw it,” said he, standing up in front of her.  “Oh, confound it!”

This exclamation, astonishing and out of place as it was, was caused by a ring at the doorbell.  The ring was followed by a whispering and giggling in the hall, and then by the entrance of the Misses Merrill into the parlor.  Curiosity had been too strong for them.  Susan was human, and here was the opportunity for a little revenge.  In justice to her, she meant the revenge to be very slight.