‘My father is dead,’ said Evan.

‘Yes!’ Mr. Andrew nodded, and glanced quickly at the ceiling, as if to make sure that none listened overhead.  ’My parliamentary duties will soon be over for the season,’ he added, aloud; pursuing, in an under-breath: 

‘Going down to-night, Van?’

‘He is to be buried to-morrow,’ said Evan.

’Then, of course, you go.  Yes:  quite right.  Love your father and mother! always love your father and mother!  Old Tom and I never knew ours.  Tom’s quite well-same as ever.  I’ll,’ he rang the bell, ’have my chop in here with you.  You must try and eat a bit, Van.  Here we are, and there we go.  Old Tom’s wandering for one of his weeks.  You’ll see him some day.  He ain’t like me.  No dinner to-day, I suppose, Charles?’

This was addressed to the footman.  He announced: 

‘Dinner to-day at half-past six, as usual, sir,’ bowed, and retired.

Mr. Andrew pored on the floor, and rubbed his hair back on his head.  ’An odd world!’ was his remark.

Evan lifted up his face to sigh:  ’I ‘m almost sick of it!’

‘Damn appearances!’ cried Mr. Andrew, jumping on his legs.

The action cooled him.

’I ‘m sorry I swore,’ he said.  ’Bad habit!  The Major’s here—­you know that?’ and he assumed the Major’s voice, and strutted in imitation of the stalwart marine.  ’Major—­a—­Strike! of the Royal Marines! returned from China! covered with glory!—­a hero, Van!  We can’t expect him to be much of a mourner.  And we shan’t have him to dine with us to-day—­that’s something.’  He sank his voice:  ’I hope the widow ‘ll bear it.’

‘I hope to God my mother is well!’ Evan groaned.

‘That’ll do,’ said Mr. Andrew.  ‘Don’t say any more.’

As he spoke, he clapped Evan kindly on the back.

A message was brought from the ladies, requiring Evan to wait on them.  He returned after some minutes.

‘How do you think Harriet’s looking?’ asked Mr. Andrew.  And, not waiting for an answer, whispered,

‘Are they going down to the funeral, my boy?’

Evan’s brow was dark, as he replied:  ‘They are not decided.’

‘Won’t Harriet go?’

‘She is not going—­she thinks not.’

‘And the Countess—­Louisa’s upstairs, eh?—­will she go?’

‘She cannot leave the Count—­she thinks not.’

‘Won’t Caroline go?  Caroline can go.  She—­he—­I mean—­Caroline can go?’

‘The Major objects.  She wishes to.’

Mr. Andrew struck out his arm, and uttered, ’the Major!’—­a compromise for a loud anathema.  But the compromise was vain, for he sinned again in an explosion against appearances.

’I’m a brewer, Van.  Do you think I’m ashamed of it?  Not while I brew good beer, my boy!—­not while I brew good beer!  They don’t think worse of me in the House for it.  It isn’t ungentlemanly to brew good beer, Van.  But what’s the use of talking?’