Can one never escape from one’s relatives?  Richard ejaculated inwardly.

Without a doubt those people were Mrs. Doria, Clare, and Adrian.  He had them under his eyes.

Clare, peeping up from her constitutional dose to make sure no man was near to see the possible consequence of it, was the first to perceive him.  Her hand dropped.

“Now, pray, drink, and do not fuss!” said Mrs. Doria.

“Mama!” Clare gasped.

Richard came forward and capitulated honourably, since retreat was out of the question.  Mrs. Doria swam to meet him:  “My own boy!  My dear Richard!” profuse of exclamations.  Clare shyly greeted him.  Adrian kept in the background.

“Why, we were coming for you to-day, Richard,” said Mrs. Doria, smiling effusion; and rattled on, “We want another cavalier.  This is delightful!  My dear nephew!  You have grown from a boy to a man.  And there’s down on his lip!  And what brings you here at such an hour in the morning?  Poetry, I suppose!  Here, take my, arm, child.—­Clare! finish that mug and thank your cousin for sparing you the third.  I always bring her, when we are by a chalybeate, to take the waters before breakfast.  We have to get up at unearthly hours.  Think, my dear boy!  Mothers are sacrifices!  And so you’ve been alone a fortnight with your agreeable uncle!  A charming time of it you must have had!  Poor Hippias! what may be his last nostrum?”

“Nephew!” Adrian stretched his head round to the couple.  “Doses of nephew taken morning and night fourteen days!  And he guarantees that it shall destroy an iron constitution in a month.”

Richard mechanically shook Adrian’s hand as he spoke.

“Quite well, Ricky?”

“Yes:  well enough,” Richard answered.

“Well?” resumed his vigorous aunt, walking on with him, while Clare and Adrian followed.  “I really never saw you looking so handsome.  There’s something about your face—­look at me—­you needn’t blush.  You’ve grown to an Apollo.  That blue buttoned-up frock coat becomes you admirably—­and those gloves, and that easy neck-tie.  Your style is irreproachable, quite a style of your own!  And nothing eccentric.  You have the instinct of dress.  Dress shows blood, my dear boy, as much as anything else.  Boy!—­you see, I can’t forget old habits.  You were a boy when I left, and now!—­Do you see any change in him, Clare?” she turned half round to her daughter.

“Richard is looking very well, mama,” said Clare, glancing at him under her eyelids.

“I wish I could say the same of you, my dear.—­Take my arm, Richard.  Are you afraid of your aunt?  I want to get used to you.  Won’t it be pleasant, our being all in town together in the season?  How fresh the Opera will be to you!  Austin, I hear, takes stalls.  You can come to the Forey’s box when you like.  We are staying with the Foreys close by here.  I think it’s a little too far out, you know; but they like the neighbourhood.  This is what I have always said:  Give him more liberty!  Austin has seen it at last.  How do you think Clare looking?”