‘I wonder----’ Janet said, but she did not go any further. Her light eyes, wondering under her black brows, were round with a question which something prevented her from putting. The possibility of her father having lived confused all her thoughts. She had an instinctive sense of the difficulties conveyed in that suggestion. She changed the subject by saying unadvisedly, ‘How bad you look, Tom! Were you ill last night?’ He pushed her away with a vigorous arm. ‘Shut up--you!’ he cried. ‘You are always telling me to shut up; but I know you were to have taken in Miss Ogilvie to dinner--that pretty Miss Ogilvie--and when you did not come, it put them all out. I heard Hampshire telling Nurse. He said something about “your boozing Mr. Tom,” and Nurse fired up. But afterwards she cried--and mother has been crying this morning; and then you look so bad. Do tell me if you were ill, Tom.’ He did not reply for some time, and then he burst out: ‘Mother’s such a bore with her crying! Does she think I’m to be a baby all my life?’ ‘Do you know,’ said Janet, ‘you’re very much like that portrait of father in the hall--that great big one with the horse? Mother looks frightened when she passes it. He does look a little fierce, as if he would have scolded dreadfully,’ the girl added, with the air of making an admission. ‘I would rather have been scolded by him,’ cried the boy--‘No, he wouldn’t have scolded, he would have known better. A man like that understands fellows. Jan, we’re rather badly off, you and me, with only a woman to look after us, and _that_ Beau.’ ‘Do you call mother a woman? You might be more civil,’ said Janet: but she did not contradict this assertion, which was not made for the first time. She, too, had always thought that the ideal father, the vague impersonation of kindness and understanding, who would never mock like Beau, nor look too grave like mother, was something to sigh for, in whose guard all would have gone well. But the portrait in the hall had daunted Janet. She had felt that those black brows could frown and those staring eyes burn beyond anything that her softly nurtured childhood had known. She would not betray herself by a word or even a thought if she could help it, but it could not be denied that her heart sank. ‘I wish,’ she said, quickly, ‘you’d leave off breakfasting, Tom, and come out with me for a walk. What is the good of pretending? One can see you don’t want anything to eat.’ ‘Walk!’ said Tom. ‘You can get that little sap to walk with you. I’ve got to meet a fellow--Blackmore’s his name--away on the other side of the moor at twelve. Just ring the bell, Jan. In five minutes I must have Bess at the door.’ ‘It’s twelve o’clock now. Don’t go to-day. Besides, mother----’ ‘What has mother to do with it?’ cried Tom, starting up. ‘I’m going, if it was only to spite mother, and you can tell her so. Do you think I’m tied to mother’s apron-string? Oh, is it you, Beau? I--am going out for a ride.’