"No, father," cried Charley, starting angrily to his feet, and overturning his chair; "I have been showing you for the past month that I cannot. But I can stand this no longer," he cried, striding up and down the room; "for it is not in my nature to play the hypocrite!" "Hypocrite, Charley! My dear boy, what is it?" "What is it!" exclaimed Charley fiercely. "You think that I am going day after day to some assignation with that--that--that--with Laura Bray!" "Good heavens, Charley! what does this mean?" "Mean, father! Why, that I am a hypocrite, and deceiving one who has always been generous and kind. It means, too, that my life has been turned to gall and bitterness; for I am going about like some puling boy, seeking in vain for a kind word from the woman who has robbed me of all that seems bright in life." "But, Charley, what does this mean? I thought--I felt sure--" "Yes," cried Charley bitterly; "and I was so mean, so base and contemptible, as to let you believe that I loved Laura Bray, and ask her here, as if--Heaven forgive me!--I blushed for my love for a woman who-- There, I can't talk of it--I can't enter into it. Father, why did you stop the even tenor of my life? But no!" he cried, as he recalled his first meeting, "it was not your doing. I am half mad with disappointment, and know not what I say. A few weeks ago, and I could mock at the word Love, while now it is as though something was robbing me of sleep by night, rest by day, and my old zest for life. Father, I tell you I love--and love almost madly--a woman who rejects my suit, who turns from me, while every effort to see her now seems to be frustrated." "But, Charley," cried the old man, his hands trembling with agitation, as, following his son about the room, he sought to drive away the suspicion that was beginning to enlighten him, "who is this lady? You are too timid--too diffident. Surely no one we know would refuse _you_. Pooh! my dear boy, you have taken the distemper almost too strongly," he continued, with a forced laugh. "But who is it?--one of the Miss Lingons?" Charley turned angrily upon him, as if suspecting him of banter, but only to see truth and earnestness in the old man's troubled countenance. "Father," he said calmly, "I love Ella Bedford." "Who? Miss Bedford?" cried the old man excitedly. "You are joking with me, my boy," he said huskily; "and it is ungenerous, Charley. You know how I have set my mind on this--on your marriage--our pedigree, my son, our ancient lineage. Think, Charley, of your position." "I do, father," said Charley sternly. "But, my boy," exclaimed Sir Philip angrily, "it is madness! You, soon to be a baronet, with one of the finest rent-rolls in the county, and to stoop to a governess!"