"I repeat," cried Lady Barmouth, "what is the meaning of this? Mr Melton, what are you doing here?" "Asking your ladyship's pardon for myself and my dear wife," said Charley, taking Maude's hand. "Wife? Then! You! Oh, Maude, you wicked, wicked girl!" "But, my dear," said Lord Barmouth. "Silence!" cried her ladyship, "Maude, you have utterly broken my heart, and--" "Don't you believe it, Maudey," said Tom, grinning. "She's only saying that to keep up appearances." "Tom!" "All right! but you know you are. There, Charley, old boy, kiss your dear mother. Come, gov'nor, say Bless you, my children!" "Certainly, my dear boy," said the old man, earnestly. "Bless you indeed, my dear children. Charley Melton, you can't tell how glad I am, my boy." "Barmouth!" "Yes, my love, but I can't help it. I do feel very glad; but oh, you young dog, to come playing us a trick like that!" "Barmouth!" "There, hang it all, mother," cried Tom, "what's the good of holding out. You've behaved very nicely, but, as we say in refined circles--I mean rings--it's quite time you threw up the sponge." "Mamma, dear, I would sooner have died than marry Sir Grantley." "Such a cruel _ruse_," sobbed her ladyship, in hystero-tragic tones. "Maude! Maude!" "Don't blame her, dearest mother," said Tom, in mock-heroic style, "it was the troubadour. _Il trovatore_! and his playing was magnificent. It would have won the heart of a female saint, or charmed a nun from her cell, let alone our Maude." "Justine, my drops, my drops." "She caves in! Charley, old chap, you may kiss her now," cried Tom, "she won't bite. There, take him to your heart, old lady; and I say, mamma, some day if you do faint, Charley could carry you to a sofa: Grantley Wilters would have doubled up like a two-foot rule." "I can never show my face in society again," said her ladyship, "never, Mr Melton." "What!" cried Tom, who grinned with delight as he saw his mother seated upon a couch between Charley and Maude. "What? why, it'll be no end of a game. It's all right, Maudey; you've won." "Ah," sighed her ladyship, "let Justine bring my drops." "Drops be hanged! Champagne," cried Tom. "Here, ring the bell, gov'nor; no _table-d'hote_ to-day, mamma's going to order a wedding dinner--a screamer." "No, no, Tom!" "Yes, yes, my dear mother." Her ladyship sighed, smiled, ordered the dinner, and Lord Barmouth rubbed his leg. "Tom, my boy," he whispered, "you really are a wonder." "Am I, gov'nor? Then you tell Tryphie so, and back me up, for I mean, as the old song says, `to marry she.'" "Do you, my boy?" "Yes, gov'nor. Do you consent?" "Certainly, my dear boy, certainly. When is it to be?" "Barmouth," said her ladyship in her deep contralto, "would you be kind enough to ring for Justine?" CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. TOM PICKS A BONE. "Stop a moment," said Tom, who had slipped out and intercepted the French maid in the corridor. "Here, I've got a bone to pick with you."