Lady Adela would have liked to give her head a saucy toss. She knew better; her father could not judge of her husband as she could. "Francis can't beat me," she thought. "He can lecture me, and _will_; and I must bear it meekly for once, under the circumstances." She looked up at her father. "My husband is very fond of me, in spite of all," she whispered. "Yes; he is fond of you," returned Lord Acorn, with emotion. "Too fond. His behaviour to you proves that. Why, how much money have you had of him, drawn from him by your wiles, beyond your large legitimate allowance?" Adela did not answer. "Has he spoken of it?" she asked, the question occurring to her. "No, he has not spoken of it; he is not the man to speak of it. I gather so much from your sisters: they talk of it among themselves. One might have thought that your husband's kindness to you would have won your regard, had nothing else done it. It strikes me all that will be over now," concluded Lord Acorn. Adela answered by a sobbing sigh. "You have been on the wrong tack for some time now," he resumed, as an afterthought. "Who but a silly-minded woman would have made herself ridiculous, as you have, by flirting with a boy like Charles Cleveland? Do----" "Oh, papa! You cannot think for a moment I meant anything!" she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing hotly. "Except to vex your husband. Do you think your foolishness--I could call it by a harsher name--did not give sorrow to myself and your mother? We had deemed you sensible, honourable, open as the day: not the hard-hearted, frivolous woman you have turned out to be. Well, Adela, people generally have to reap what they sow: and I fear your harvest will not be a pleasant one." She pressed her trembling hands together. "Where are you going?" inquired Lady Acorn, as her husband took his hat up. "To Leadenhall Street--to Grubb. Some one must apprise him of this dreadful truth; and I suppose it falls to me to do it--and a most distressing task it is. Would you have allowed young Cleveland to stand his trial?--to have suffered the penalty of the crime?" broke off Lord Acorn to his daughter. "It would never have come to that, papa." "But it would have come to that; it was coming to it. I ask, would you have allowed an innocent lad to be sent over the seas for you?" Adela shuddered. "I must have spoken then," was her faint answer. Lord Acorn, jumping into a cab, proceeded to Leadenhall Street, to make this wretched confession to his son-in-law. Had he been making it of himself, he would have felt it less. He was, however, spared the task. Mr. Grubb was not in the City, and Mr. Grubb already knew the truth.