Tom said something about Doctor Todd that sounded condemnatory. "Yes, my dear boy," said the earl, "but--" Just then the door opened, and a ponderous-looking butler, carefully dressed, with his hair brushed up into a brutus on the top of his head, and every bristle closely scraped from a fat double-chin which reposed in folds over his stiff white cravat, slowly entered the room. "Why the devil isn't this bell answered, Robbins?" cried Tom. "Very sorry, my lord, but I thought--" "Confound you! how dare you think? You thought my father rang, and that you might be as long as you liked." "Ye-yes, my lord. I thought his lordship rang." "Yes, you thought right," cried Tom. "His lordship rang for some brandy and seltzer. Look sharp and get it." "Yes, my lord, but--" "Only a very little of the pale brandy in it, Robbins--about a dessert-spoonful," said the earl, apologetically. "Fetch the spirit-stand and two bottles of seltzer, Robbins," roared the young man. "And look sharp," he added in a tone of voice which sent the butler off in post-haste. "That's a flea in his fat old ear," cried the young man, laying his hand on his father's shoulder. "And now look here, gov'nor, you would please me very much if you would stand up for your rights. You know I'd back you up." "Would it please you, Tom?" said the old man, gazing in his son's face, and patting his shoulder, "Well, I'll--I'll try, Tom, I'll try; but-- but--I'm afraid it's too late." "Nonsense, gov'nor. Come, it will make things more comfortable. Keep an eye, too, on Maude. I don't want her to be married off to a millionaire whether she likes him or no." "I'll try, my boy, I'll try," said the old man, in a hopeless tone of voice. "Her ladyship said--" "Who's that for, Robbins?" cried a deep masculine-feminine voice outside the door, just as the jingle of glasses on a silver waiter was heard. "For Lord Diphoos, my lady," was the reply, in a voice that seemed to come through a layer of eider down, and the door was thrown open; there was a tremendous rustling of silk, and Lady Barmouth, a stout, florid, well-preserved woman of forty-eight, swept into the room. "Ah, my dear child," she exclaimed in a pensive, theatrical tone of voice, as she spread her skirts carefully around her, and exhaled a peculiarly strong scent of eau-de-cologne, "this is a terribly trying time." "Awfully," said Tom, shortly. "That will do, Robbins; I'll open the seltzer." Then, as the butler left the room--"Awfully trying--quite a martyrdom for you, mamma. Have a brandy and seltzer?"