he storm, "I think in this case it was more idleness than want of
brain."

"My dear Buscarlet, did you ever yet hear of a dunce whose mother did
not go about impressing upon people how idle the dear boy was? Idle?
Pooh! lack of intellect!"

"At all events, the Wyburns are to be pitied. The eldest son's marriage
with one so much beneath him was also a sad blow."

"Was it? Others endure like blows and make no complaint. It is quite
the common and regular thing for the child you have nurtured, to grow
up and embitter your life in every possible way by marrying against
your wishes, or otherwise bringing down disgrace upon your head. I have
been especially blessed in my children and grandchildren."

"Just so, no doubt,--no doubt," says Mr. Buscarlet, nervously. There is
a meaning sneer about the old man's lips.

"Specially blessed," he repeats. "I had reason to be proud of them.
Each child as he or she married gave me fresh cause for joy. Marcia's
mother was an Italian dancer."

"She was an actress," Marcia interposes, calmly, not a line of
displeasure, not the faintest trace of anger, discernible in her pale
face. "I do not recollect having ever heard she danced."

"Probably she suppressed that fact. It hardly adds to one's
respectability. Philip's father was a spendthrift. His son develops day
by day a very dutiful desire to follow in his footsteps."

"Perhaps I might do worse," Shadwell replies, with a little aggravating
laugh. "At all events, he was _beloved_."

"So he was,--while his money lasted. Eleanor's father----"

With a sudden, irrepressible start Molly rises to her feet and, with a
rather white face, turns to her grandfather.

"I will thank you, grandpapa, to say nothing against _my_ father,"
she says, in tones so low, yet so full of dignity and indignation, that
the old man actually pauses.

"High tragedy," says he, with a sneer. "Why, you are all wrongly
assorted. The actress should have been your mother, Eleanor."

Yet it is noticeable that he makes no further attempt to slight the
memory of the dead Massereene.

"I shan't be able to stand much more of this," says Mr. Potts,
presently, coming behind the lounge on which sit Lady Stafford and
Molly. "I shall infallibly blow out at that obnoxious old person, or
else do something equally reprehensible."

"He is a perfect bear," says Cecil angrily.

"He is a wicked old man," says Molly, still trembling with indignation.

"He is a jolly old sno