what the cabman did who had a sovereign
given to him for driving a mile. He asked the fool who gave it him to
make it a guinea. I am the fool, and, by George, you are the cabman!"
With this Sir Thomas turned into the house by a small door, leaving
his son-in-law to wander round to the front by himself.

"Your father has insulted me horribly," he said to his wife, whom he
found up in her bed-room.

"What is the matter now, Septimus?"

"That little mare of his, which I have no doubt has come down half a
score of times before, fell with me and cut her knees."

"That's Phoebe," said Augusta. "She was his favourite."

"It's a kind of thing that might happen to anyone, and no gentleman
thinks of mentioning it. He said such things to me that upon my word
I don't think I can stop in the house any longer."

"Oh, yes, you will," said the wife.

"Of course, it is a difference coming from one's father-in-law. It's
almost the same as from one's father."

"He didn't mean it, Septimus."

"I suppose not. If he had, I really couldn't have borne it. He does
become very rough sometimes, but I know that at bottom he has a
thorough respect for me. It is only that induces me to bear it." Then
it was settled between husband and wife that they should remain in
their present quarters, and that not a word further should be said
at any rate by them about the Phoebe mare. Nor did Sir Thomas say
another word about the mare, but he added a note to those already
written in the tablets of his memory as to his son-in-law, and
the note declared that no hint, let it be ever so broad, would be
effectual with Mr. Traffick.

The next day was a Sunday, and then another trouble awaited Sir
Thomas. At this time it was not customary with Tom to come often to
Merle Park. He had his own lodgings in London and his own club, and
did not care much for the rural charms of Merle Park. But on this
occasion he had condescended to appear, and on the Sunday afternoon
informed his father that there was a matter which he desired to
discuss with him. "Father," said he, "I am getting confoundedly sick
of all this."

"Confounded," said Sir Thomas, "is a stupid foolish word, and it
means nothing."

"There is a sort of comfort in it, Sir," said Tom; "but if it's
objectionable I'll drop it."

"It is objectionable."

"I'll drop it, Sir. But nevertheless I am very sick of it."

"What are you sick of, Tom?"

"All this affair with my cousin."

"Then, if you ta