"You have upset me very much, and made me very unhappy; but I wish you to say nothing to your mother, and we will talk about this again. Promise me one thing,--that you will go back to Oxford at least until Christmas." "What is the good of that, sir?" asked his son, dubiously. "What is the good of anything? for you have taken every bit of pleasure out of my life; but at least you can do as much as this for me." "Oh, yes, father, if you wish it," returned Dick, more cheerfully; "but all the same I have fixed upon a City life." "We will talk of that again," replied his father; "and, Dick, we go home to-morrow, and, unless you promise me not to come down to Hadleigh between this and Christmas, I shall be obliged to speak to Mrs. Challoner." "Oh, there is no need for that," returned Dick, sulkily. "You give me your word?" "Oh, yes," pushing aside his chair with a kick. "It would be no use coming down to Hadleigh, for Nan would not speak to me. I know her too well for that. She has got such a conscience, you know. I shall write to her, but I do not know if she will answer my letters; but it does not matter: we shall both be true as steel. If you don't want me any more, I think I will have a cigar on the beach, for this room is confoundedly hot." And, without waiting for permission, Dick strode off, still sulky and fully aware that his father meant to follow him, for fear of his footsteps straying again down the Braidwood Road. CHAPTER XXXII. "DICK IS TO BE OUR REAL BROTHER." Never was a father more devoted to his son's company than Mr. Mayne was that day. Dick's cigar was hardly alight before his father had joined him. When Dick grew weary of throwing stones aimlessly at imaginary objects, and voted the beach slow, Mr. Mayne proposed a walk with alacrity. They dined together,--not talking much, it is true, for Dick was still sulky, and his father tired and inclined to headache, but keeping up a show of conversation for the waiter's benefit. But when that functionary had retired, and the wine was on the table, Dick made no further effort to be agreeable, but placed himself in the window-seat and stared moodily at the sea, while his father watched him and drank his wine in silence. Mr. Mayne was fighting against drowsiness valiantly. Dick knew this, and was waiting for an opportunity to make his escape. "Had we not better ring for lights and coffee?" asked his father, as he felt the first ominous sensations stealing over him. "Not just yet. I feel rather disposed for a nap myself; and it is a shame to shut out the moonlight," returned that wicked Dick, calling up a fib to his aid, and closing his eyes as he spoke. The bait took. In another five minutes Mr. Mayne was nodding in earnest, and Dick on tiptoe had just softly closed the door behind him, and was taking his straw hat from its peg.