"Something did annoy her, I suspect," and I was about to blurt out as much as I knew or guessed of the foolish mystery about Sarah Enfield, but some instinct stopped me. "You and Penelope had better settle your own affairs," said I, laughing. "I'll go and fetch her." "Thank you." He threw himself down on the velvet arm-chair--his favourite lounge in our house for the last ten years. His handsome profile turned up against the light, his fingers lazily tapping the arm of the chair, a trick he had from his boyhood,--this is my last impression of Francis--as _our_ Francis Charteris. I had to call outside Penelope's door three times, "Francis is here." "Francis is waiting." "Francis wants to speak to you," before she answered or appeared; and then, without taking the slightest notice of me, she walked slowly downstairs, holding by the wall as she went. So, I thought, it is Francis who has vexed her after all, and determined to leave them to fight it out and make it up again--this, which would be the last of their many lovers' quarrels. Ah! it was. Half an hour afterwards, papa sent for me to the study, and there I saw Francis Charteris standing, exactly where you once stood--you see, I am not afraid of remembering 'it myself, or of reminding you. No, my Max! Our griefs are nothing, nothing! Penelope also was present, standing by my father, who said, looking round at us with a troubled, bewildered air:-- "Dora, what is all this? Your sister comes here and tells me she will not marry Francis. Francis rushes in after her, and says, I hardly can make out what. Children, why do you vex me so? Why cannot you leave an old man in peace?" Penelope answered:--"Father, you shall be left in peace, if you will only confirm what I have said to that--that gentleman, and send him out of my sight." Francis laughed:--"To be called back again presently. You know you will do it, as soon as you have come to your right senses, Penelope. You will never disgrace us in the eyes of the world--set everybody gossipping about our affairs, for such a trifle." My sister made him no answer. There was less even of anger than contempt--utter, measureless contempt-!--in the way she just lifted up her eyes and looked at him--looked him over from head to heel, and turned again to her father. "Papa, make him understand--I cannot--that I wish all this ended; I wish never to see his face again." "Why?" said papa, in great perplexity. "He knows why." Papa and I both turned to Francis, whose careless manner changed a little: he grew red and uncomfortable. "She may tell if she chooses; I lay no embargo of silence upon her. I have made all the explanations possible, and if she will not receive them, I cannot help it. The thing is done, and cannot be undone. I have begged her pardon, and made all sorts of promises for the future--no man can do more." He said this sullenly, and yet as if he wished to make friends with her, but Penelope seemed scarcely even to hear.