gshaw struck the table with his fist, not
passionately, in any disorder of mind, but sternly and effectively.

"Hold your tongue," he said, and kept his eyes on him to see that he
held it.

Frank rose.

"I beg your pardon," he said to his father, and, not looking again at
his brother, walked out of the room.

The two wiser heads, being then left undisturbed by the follies of
youth, discussed at length and in complete accord the outrageous episode
of the afternoon.

CHAPTER V

Frank strode hurriedly across the hall, flung into the library, and
there relieved his feelings by a few crisp expletives. Gloom succeeded
anger, but after a few minutes youth began to prevail even over these
high emotions. He turned up the light, adjusted his tie and smoothed his
hair before the mirror over the mantelpiece, and ran upstairs to the
drawing-room. Outside the door he paused, looking now like the expectant
watcher on the platform. Faintly he heard Ellen Berstoun's voice, and
the same look came into his eyes as when he caught the distant roaring
of the train. He straightened his neck, banished all expression from his
face as a soldier should, and entered the room.

It is generally conceded by such as have enjoyed the privilege of
sitting in a drawing-room waiting for the gentlemen to lay down their
cigars that no period of the day is more immune from the bustle and
turmoil of modern life. But the peace of an ordinary drawing-room was a
bank holiday compared with the Walkingshaws'. Not too much gas was
burned, or too much coal, since money is not made and well-born wives
secured by waste of fuel. That leads to mere cheerfulness. The monastic
atmosphere was completed by the Victorian upholstery and the hushed
voices of the four ladies, so that even the young soldier instinctively
trod more like a burglar than a Cromarty Highlander as he advanced
towards one of the groups of two.

Near the fireplace sat Miss Walkingshaw and Mrs. Dunbar engaged on
fancy-work, and occasionally murmuring references to "my last
cook"--"that tall girl Jane." But it was not they that Frank approached.
On two chairs very close together and far removed from the others, Jean
and Ellen talked. Their voices, too, were hushed, but the subject of
their conversation was evidently more agitating than cooks. In fact,
there was something very like a sob more than once in Jean's voice, and
Ellen held her hand and gently pressed it. But when poor Jean saw