e and the gleam of his eye that he had not a sorrow nor a care in
the world. Nor had he. He was incapable of anticipating to-morrow's
griefs. The prospect of future want no more disturbed his appetite
than does that of the butcher's knife disturb the appetite of the
sheep.

Such was the usual tenor of their way; but there were rare exceptions.
Occasionally the father would allow an angry glance to fall from his
eye, and the lion would send forth a low dangerous roar as though he
meditated some deed of blood. Occasionally also Madame Neroni would
become bitter against mankind, more than usually antagonistic to the
world's decencies, and would seem as though she was about to break from
her moorings and allow herself to be carried forth by the tide of her
feelings to utter ruin and shipwreck. She, however, like the rest of
them, had no real feelings, could feel no true passion. In that was her
security. Before she resolved on any contemplated escapade she would
make a small calculation, and generally summed up that the Stanhope
villa or even Barchester close was better than the world at large.

They were most irregular in their hours. The father was generally the
earliest in the breakfast-parlour, and Charlotte would soon follow and
give him his coffee, but the others breakfasted anywhere, anyhow, and
at any time. On the morning after the archdeacon's futile visit to the
palace, Dr. Stanhope came downstairs with an ominously dark look about
his eyebrows; his white locks were rougher than usual, and he breathed
thickly and loudly as he took his seat in his armchair. He had open
letters in his hand, and when Charlotte came into the room, he was
still reading them. She went up and kissed him as was her wont, but he
hardly noticed her as she did so, and she knew at once that something
was the matter.

"What's the meaning of that?" said he, throwing over the table a
letter with a Milan postmark. Charlotte was a little frightened as
she took it up, but her mind was relieved when she saw that it
was merely the bill of their Italian milliner. The sum total was
certainly large, but not so large as to create an important row.

"It's for our clothes, Papa, for six months before we came here. The
three of us can't dress for nothing, you know."

"Nothing, indeed!" said he, looking at the figures which, in Milanese
denominations, were certainly monstrous.

"The man should have sent it to me," said Charlotte.

"I wish he had with