as those Alburys."

"I don't think that would matter."

"It does count, mother. I suppose Ayala is the same as other girls in
that respect. I am sure I don't know why it is that she should have
taken such an aversion to me. I suppose it is that she doesn't think
me so much,--quite such a swell as some other men."

"One can't account for such things, Tom."

"No;--that is just it. And therefore she might come round without
accounting for it. At any rate, you might try. You might tell her
that it is ruining me;--that I shall have to go about wandering over
all the world because she is so hard-hearted."

"I don't think I could, my dear," said Lady Tringle, after
considering the matter for a while.

"Why not? Is it because of the trouble?"

"No, my dear; a mother does not think what trouble she may take for
her child, if any good may be done. It is not the trouble. I would
walk all round England to get her for you if that would do it."

"Why not, then? At any rate you might get an answer from her. She
would tell you something of her intention. Mother, I shall never
go away till I know more about it than I do now. The governor says
that he will turn me out. Let him turn me out. That won't make me go
away."

"Oh, Tom, he doesn't mean it."

"But he says it. If I knew that it was all over,--that every chance
was gone, then I would go away."

"It is not the Alburys that I am afraid of," said Lady Tringle.

"What then?"

"It is your father. I cannot go if he will not let me." Nevertheless
she promised before she left his bedside that she would ask Sir
Thomas when he came home whether he would permit her to make the
journey. All this occurred while Sir Thomas was away in quest of his
daughter. And it may be imagined that immediately after his return he
was hardly in a humour to yield to any such request as that which had
been suggested. He was for the moment almost sick of his children,
sick of Merle Park, sick of his wife, and inclined to think that
the only comfort to be found in the world was to be had among his
millions, in that little back parlour in Lombard Street.

It was on a Sunday that he returned, and on that day he did not see
his son. On the Monday morning he went into the room, and Tom was
about to press upon him the prayer which he had addressed to his
mother when his lips were closed by his father's harshness. "Tom,"
he said, "you will be pleased to remember that you start on the
nineteenth."