‘The fortune hath not been altogether on his side, sir, for indeed I should have fared ill at Wynford without your son’s society.’ ‘Phil should know better than to ask a lady to walk out over such roads as these,’ said Meadowes, with a glance at Carrie’s shoes; for that careless young woman, who was very vain of her pretty feet, had come out in a pair of smart high-heeled satin shoes—now, alas! smart no longer. ‘Oh, we are not come so very far from home,’ said Carrie; ‘but, sir, Phil will wish to ride home with you. I shall not go farther now.’ ‘You must allow me to have the honour of fetching you home in the coach,’ said Meadowes. He offered his hand to Carrie, and held open the door of the coach as he spoke. Carrie considered it very good fun to ride home in a coach and four. She thought what fun she would make of it in her next letter to her father. But she noticed how silent Phil had become of a sudden. He sat on the back seat and allowed his father to carry on all the conversation. At the gate of Lady Mallow’s house Carrie descended, and, with a farewell wave of her hand, tripped off up the avenue in her damp little shoes. After Carrie had left the coach all efforts at conversation ceased entirely between father and son. But when they drew up at the door, Meadowes, as he got out, signified to Phil that he would speak with him at once in the library. Phil followed his father with a shrug which was not noticed by the older man, as he seated himself in a large chair, and indicated to Phil that he should stand facing him. ‘Where did you meet Miss Caroline Shepley?’ was the first suavely put question which Phil had to answer. ‘In the fields by the river, sir.’ ‘And what introduction had you to this fair lady?’ ‘I had met her before, sir.’ ‘Where?’ ‘In London.’ ‘At whose house in London?’ ‘In the Park.’ ‘And who presented you to her there?’ ‘A friend, sir.’ ‘What friend?’ ‘I cannot tell you, sir.’ ‘You must tell me.’ ‘I will not.’ There was a short silence. Phil leant against the mantel-shelf looking straight at his father, and waited for him to speak. Meadowes folded his arms, unfolded them, leant back in his chair, finally spoke— ‘Well, that is straight speech, my son, and mine shall be as straight: After this time you shall not with my permission have word or look again for Miss Caroline Shepley.’ ‘Have you aught against Carrie Shepley, sir?’ asked Phil. He burned to tell his father all he knew, but the dread of bringing Peter into disgrace tied his tongue—he must try to extract the story for himself. ‘I have: let that suffice you. Philip,’ cried his father, starting forward in his seat, ‘Philip, you are too young to question my commands after this fashion. Enough that I tell you to have no further speech with this young woman. ’Tis not for you to gainsay me.’ Phil drew himself up quickly from the easy lounging attitude he had stood in.