Chris was mortified, but she had expected something of the sort, so she conquered the feeling easily. She would not go up to her mother, who was dressing for dinner, to delay her and worry her by a description of the new arrivals. Mrs. Abercarne could take her own part whatever happened, and there was no need to let her anticipate evil more than she had already done. In the meantime, Mrs. Graham-Shute had not dared to make any comment on the situation until she was well past the study door. But upstairs, meeting her husband, who had gone straight to the stables for a cigar after his journey, she poured out her wrath in a ceaseless torrent. Mr. Graham-Shute was a small, inoffensive man, and he looked smaller and more inoffensive still when in the company of his wife. He was the grandson of a man who had been a great poet, and there is no need to say more about him than that he was a striking example of the fact that genius is not hereditary. Being used to his wife’s harangues, he listened indifferently to this one; and the only point in it which excited him to any attention was her account of the good looks of the interloper. “Pretty girl, is she?” said he, with interest, when his better half took breath for a moment. “I must make haste and dress and run down and have a look at her!” The poor lady was hardly more fortunate with her children. Lilith was rather pretty, Rose was rather plain; the former had dark eyes and a loud voice, and the latter had light eyes and no voice at all. They both thought that mamma was making a great fuss about a small matter, and Lilith told her so. Unable to get any sympathy from this quarter, Mrs. Graham-Shute tried her son. Donald, who was the apple of his mother’s eye, had been coarsely and aptly described by Mr. Bradfield before his arrival as a rough young cub. He was a great, loud-voiced, awkward hobbledehoy, who had remained at this stage much longer than he would otherwise have done through the injudicious management of his mother. He couldn’t be made to see things from his mother’s point of view at all. Chris was an “awfully pretty girl,” and looked like an “awfully jolly one.” In consequence of her presence he looked forward to having a very much pleasanter time at Wyngham House than he had ever had there before. “I shouldn’t worry myself about it, mother. In fact, I don’t know what you are worrying about,” he said, when she paused for breath. “The girl’s a lady, and----” “Why, you idiot! don’t you see that’s the danger?” gasped his mother. “She’s a lady, and she’s young and good-looking. And if she gets him to marry her, there’ll be an end of any hope of his doing anything for you, or for any of us!” “Gets him to marry her!” roared Donald, indignantly. “Why, the old fool might think himself precious lucky if he were to get her to marry him! Why, she’s one of the most charming----”