and unwilling kiss on father's forehead--and
said "good-night" in a tone as suppressedly hostile as his own. Now I
may go. We may all go. I am the last, or I think I am, to pass through
the swing-door. I hurry along the passage to join the rest in the
school-room. I upbraid the boys for the rash impiety of their demeanor.
I feel a foot on my garments behind, and hear a long cracking sound that
I too, too well know to mean _gathers_.

"You beast!" cried I, in good nervous English, turning sharply round
with my hand raised in act to strike, "that is the third time this week
that you have torn out my--"

I stop dumfounded. If I mean to box the offender's ears, I must raise my
hand considerably higher than it is at present. Angels and ministers of
grace! what has happened? I have called General Sir Roger Tempest a
_beast_, and offered to cuff him. For a moment, I am dumfounded. Then,
for shyness has never been my besetting sin, and something in the genial
laughter of his eyes reassures me.

I hold out the injured portion of my raiment, and say:

"Look! when you see what you have done, I am sure you will forgive me;
but of course I meant it for Bobby. I never dreamt it was you."

He takes hold of one end of the rent, I of the other, and we both
examine it.

"How exceedingly clumsy of me! how could it have happened? I beg your
pardon ten thousand times."

In his words there is polite remorse and solicitude; in his face only a
friendly mirth. He is old, that is clear. Had he been young, he would
have said, with that variety and suitability of epithets so
characteristic of this generation:

"I am awfully sorry! how awfully stupid of me! what an awful duffer I
am!"

The gas is shining in its garish yellow brightness full down upon us, as
we stand together, illuminating my plain, scorched face, the slatternly
looseness of my hair, and the burnt hole in my gown.

"You will have to give me another," I say, looking up at him and
smiling. I should not have thought of saying it if he had been a young
man, but with a _vieux papa_ one may be at one's ease.

"There is nothing in the world I should like better," he says, with a
sort of hurry and eagerness, not very suggestive of a _vieux papa_; "but
really--" (seeing me look rather ashamed of my proposition)--"is it
_quite_ hopeless? the damage quite irremediable?"

"On the contrary," reply I, tucking my gathers in, with a graceful
movement, at the band of my gown, "five m