"At all events, the Wyburns are to be pitied. The eldest son's marriage with one so much beneath him was also a sad blow." "Was it? Others endure like blows and make no complaint. It is quite the common and regular thing for the child you have nurtured, to grow up and embitter your life in every possible way by marrying against your wishes, or otherwise bringing down disgrace upon your head. I have been especially blessed in my children and grandchildren." "Just so, no doubt,--no doubt," says Mr. Buscarlet, nervously. There is a meaning sneer about the old man's lips. "Specially blessed," he repeats. "I had reason to be proud of them. Each child as he or she married gave me fresh cause for joy. Marcia's mother was an Italian dancer." "She was an actress," Marcia interposes, calmly, not a line of displeasure, not the faintest trace of anger, discernible in her pale face. "I do not recollect having ever heard she danced." "Probably she suppressed that fact. It hardly adds to one's respectability. Philip's father was a spendthrift. His son develops day by day a very dutiful desire to follow in his footsteps." "Perhaps I might do worse," Shadwell replies, with a little aggravating laugh. "At all events, he was _beloved_." "So he was,--while his money lasted. Eleanor's father----" With a sudden, irrepressible start Molly rises to her feet and, with a rather white face, turns to her grandfather. "I will thank you, grandpapa, to say nothing against _my_ father," she says, in tones so low, yet so full of dignity and indignation, that the old man actually pauses. "High tragedy," says he, with a sneer. "Why, you are all wrongly assorted. The actress should have been your mother, Eleanor." Yet it is noticeable that he makes no further attempt to slight the memory of the dead Massereene. "I shan't be able to stand much more of this," says Mr. Potts, presently, coming behind the lounge on which sit Lady Stafford and Molly. "I shall infallibly blow out at that obnoxious old person, or else do something equally reprehensible." "He is a perfect bear," says Cecil angrily. "He is a wicked old man," says Molly, still trembling with indignation. "He is a jolly old snook," says Mr. Potts. But as neither of his listeners know what he means, they do not respond. "Let us do something," says Plantagenet, briskly. "But what? Will you sing for us, Molly? 'Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast.'" "It would take a good deal of music to soothe our _bete noire_," says Potts. "Besides--I confess it,--music is not what Artemus Ward would call my 'forte.' I don't understand it. I am like the man who said he only knew two tunes in the world: one was 'God save the Queen,' and the other wasn't. No, let us do something active,--something unusual, something wicked." "If you can suggest anything likely to answer to your description, you will make me your friend for life," says Cecil, with solemnity. "I feel bad."