It still wanted five minutes to dinner; and he felt there was no peace of mind for him, as long as Humphrey remained in the room. As if to atone for his unceremonious entry, Humphrey seemed determined that his exit should be more in accordance with the rules of society; for he advanced to the fat gentleman next his father, and holding out his hand wished him "good night;" then, proceeding to the next in order, he did likewise. "Is he going to shake hands with every single one?" thought Sir Everard, in despair, as his eyes wandered from one to another of his twenty guests, dispersed all over the library. There could be no doubt about it. Patiently and methodically Humphrey went through his task. Not one was overlooked--not one was left out. No matter if one was standing apart, at the other end of the room, another deep in a volume of prints, and two more tête-à-tête in a political discussion. Humphrey thought nothing of pursuing the first, rousing the second, and disturbing the others. The inevitable "good-night" rang out all down the room, and the inevitable little palm was outstretched. Sir Everard ever afterwards looked back to those slow moments of torture, as to a sort of hideous nightmare. Each minute was laden with anxiety, each new handshaking fraught with danger, each conversation that a guest opened with the child, a fresh source of fear. Interminable moments! The hands of the clock seemed as if they would never move, the gong seemed as if it would never sound, and he stood in despair, watching the little figure pursuing its triumphal progress down the room, and listening to the patronizing tones in which one and the other rallied the boy on his mistake. "So you thought you were going to see a lot of wild men, young gentleman?" "Uncle Charlie told me so," was the answer. Sir Everard fidgeted from one leg to the other. ("Only thirteen more," he observed to himself.) "And you're quite disappointed?" said the next one, laughing. "Yes," said Humphrey; "there isn't much to see in a lot of gentlemen in black coats." ("Only twelve now," reflected the baronet.) "It was a joke of uncle's, I suppose," said a paterfamilias, in a consoling tone--and Sir Everard beat the ground nervously with his foot. "A very stupid joke," said Humphrey, with which opinion his father fervently agreed. It ended at last. The gong sounded, the last "good night" was said, and with an indescribable sense of relief Sir Everard saw the little figure disappear. But he did not recover himself all the evening. It was remarked that he was silent and abstracted during the dinner, and the guests shook their heads, and observed that he had never got over his wife's death. He was truly thankful when the party broke up, and the strain was over. He could not pass the bedroom nursery without taking a look at Miles. He was sleeping peacefully, but various sounds, as if of sobbing, came from the other little bed.