e within your own means. You will be rich; and he who is so
can please himself in almost every thing. You can then marry your Agnes,
if you will, without fear of being disinherited; or, what is better and
more likely, you may choose from a score of Agneses, or even take them
all."

He had a light amusing way with him, this Balfour, that hid the cynicism
which would otherwise have jarred upon his young companion; for Charles,
though selfish and fond of pleasure, was good-natured, and had not
reached that period of life when our sherry must needs not only be dry,
but have bitters in it. He was genuinely fond of his mother; yet even in
this short time Balfour, as she well knew, had taught him to disobey
her; not setting her at open defiance, indeed, but regarding her advice
and remonstrances with a sort of tender contempt. She meant all for his
good, his Mentor admitted, but women had not much knowledge of the
world; and if a young man was not to be his own master at eighteen, he
must look to be in leading-strings all his life. Harry perceived her
darling's plastic nature changing daily for the worse in the hands of
this crafty potter; and though it was an admission humiliating to her,
as a mother, to make, she made it to Mrs. Basil in her sick-room.

"Mr. Balfour is doing my Charley harm," she said. "He is an altered boy
already, and yet my husband talks as though we are never to be rid of
the man. What money, what gain, can ever compensate for the
demoralization of our child?"

"Nothing, indeed," said Mrs. Basil, quietly. "But have a little
patience. Is not this gentleman going on Friday?"

"Yes; but he will come back again. It is only some business that calls
him into Midlandshire. He does not even take all his luggage away. I
have a great mind to tell him point-blank that his presence in this
house--at all events in Mr. Coe's absence--is unwelcome; but I dare not
do it; I am afraid."

"Yes, your husband would be very angry, without doubt," said Mrs. Basil,
thoughtfully.

"That is not it. I am afraid of the man himself. He reminds me of that
hateful creature--what is he?--in the opera, for which Mr. Aird gave us
the tickets, and which Agnes went with us to see--Mephistopheles."

"What a strange fancy! He is only a sour, pleasure-jaded man. If I was
not so ill I would speak to him myself; but you are right not to do so;
that is your husband's place, who has brought him here. Let things be as
they are till Friday.