“And he did not look at all frightened to see us; as he would have done had there been anything very wrong. I think he was rather pleased--it was papa he was afraid of. Now it is clear that if Paul had been--wicked, as papa said--(oh, Paul, Paul, I beg your pardon dear, I never thought it!)--it would have been you and me, mamma, don’t you think, that they would have been afraid of? They could not have borne to look us in the face if _that_ had been true; whereas,” said Alice, in a tingle of logic, the tears starting into her eyes, “it was papa Mr. Fairfax was afraid of, not you or me.” “That is true,” said Lady Markham, brightening slowly, but she did not take all the comfort from this potent argument that Alice expected. “Unless they are very intimate, he is not likely to know all that Paul is doing” she said, shaking her head. Paul’s room was far from orderly. Once upon a time he had been very fond of knick-knacks, and had cultivated china and hung plates about the walls. All that was gone now. Lady Markham looked at the bareness of the room with a pang. Would he have neglected it so if everything had been going well with him? Perhaps had it been much decorated she would have asked herself whether these meritricious ornaments did not indicate a mind given up to frivolity; but at this moment it seemed a curious and significant fact that the ornaments had all disappeared from his walls. In the meantime young Fairfax was hurrying Sir William at a pace which scarcely befitted his dignity, or his years, along the streets. Probably the young man forgot that his companion was likely to suffer from this rapid progress; and when he remembered, he was not without hope of tiring the angry (as he supposed) father. But Sir William was a statesman and trained to exertion. He puffed a little and got very hot, but he did not flinch. Fairfax it was evident knew very well where he was going. He made a cunning attempt to deceive his companion by pretending to pause and wonder at the first corner; then he smote his thigh, and declared that of course he knew where Paul would be at this hour--not in any man’s lodgings--with the man who was teaching him--what was it? He could not recollect what it was--wood-carving, or something of that sort. “It is a good way off; would it not be better to let me fetch him?” he said, making a last attempt. “Let us get a cab,” said Sir William. “Oh, it is not so far as that,” said his guide, with a blush. Sir William had a half-suspicion that he was being led round and round about to make him think the way longer than it really was; but that part of Oxford had changed since his time, and he was not quite sure of the way. At last, however, when no further delay was possible, he found himself at the door of a little grimy house, the ground floor of which seemed to be occupied as some kind of workshop, where a man sat working. The place smelt of varnish and the window was full of small