"It is three minutes to ten," cried Clara, suddenly, glancing at the

clock.

"Good gracious! So it is! Now for our little tableau!" Ida pushed the

champagne bottles obtrusively forward, in the direction of the door, and

scattered oyster shells over the cloth.

"Have you your pipe, Charles?"

"My pipe! Yes."

"Then please smoke it. Now don't argue about it, but do it, for you will

ruin the effect otherwise."

The large man drew out a red case, and extracted a great yellow

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meerschaum, out of which, a moment later, he was puffing thick wreaths

of smoke. Harold had lit a cigar, and both the girls had cigarettes.

"That looks very nice and emancipated," said Ida, glancing round. "Now I

shall lie on this sofa. So! Now, Charles, just sit here, and throw your

arm carelessly over the back of the sofa. No, don't stop smoking. I like

it. Clara, dear, put your feet upon the coal-scuttle, and do try to look

a little dissipated. I wish we could crown ourselves with flowers. There

are some lettuces on the sideboard. Oh dear, here he is! I hear his

key." She began to sing in her high, fresh voice a little snatch from a

French song, with a swinging tra la-la chorus.

The Doctor had walked home from the station in a peaceable and relenting

frame of mind, feeling that, perhaps, he had said too much in the

morning, that his daughters had for years been models in every way,

and that, if there had been any change of late, it was, as they said

themselves, on account of their anxiety to follow his advice and to

imitate Mrs. Westmacott. He could see clearly enough now that that

advice was unwise, and that a world peopled with Mrs. Westmacotts would

not be a happy or a soothing one. It was he who was, himself, to

blame, and he was grieved by the thought that perhaps his hot words had

troubled and saddened his two girls.

This fear, however, was soon dissipated. As he entered his hall he heard

the voice of Ida uplifted in a rollicking ditty, and a very strong smell

of tobacco was borne to his nostrils. He threw open the dining-room

door, and stood aghast at the scene which met his eyes.

The room was full of the blue wreaths of smoke, and the lamp-light shone

through the thin haze upon gold-topped bottles, plates, napkins, and a

litter of oyster shells and cigarettes. Ida, flushed and excited, was

reclining upon the settee, a wine-glass at her elbow, and a cigarette

between her fingers, while Charles Westmacott sat beside her, with his

arm thrown over the head of the sofa, with the suggestion of a caress.

On the other side of the room, Clara was lounging in an arm-chair, with

Harold beside her, both smoking, and both with wine-glasses beside them.

The Doctor stood speechless in the doorway, staring at the Bacchanalian

scene.




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