Dick meant nothing by this speech more than his words implied: he was far too good-natured for an _arriere-pensee_. But his father chose to consider himself insulted. "You insolent young fellow!" he exclaimed, fuming. "Do you mean your mother was not as good as Miss Nancy, any day? I never did believe in those Challoners,--never, in spite of the mother's airs. I tell you what, Dick, you are treating me shamefully; after all the money I have wasted on you, to turn round on me in this way and talk about the City. I wash my hands of you, sir. I will have nothing to do with introductions: you may go your way, but you will never see a penny of my money." And he walked on with a very black look indeed. "All right," returned Dick. But he was not quite so cool now. "Thank you for all you have done for me, and for letting me know your future intentions. I am thinking it is a good thing Nan has learned her business, for, as we shall be tolerably poor, it will be handy for her to make her own gowns." "Very well, Dick." "I shall go up to Mr. Stansfield to-morrow; and the day after I suppose I had better write to the Dean. You may not believe me, father,"--and here Dick's lip quivered for the first time,--"but I am awfully sorry to cross you in this way; but my heart is so set on Nan that I could not possibly bring myself to live without her." But to this Mr. Mayne made no reply, and they walked the remainder of the way in silence. Mrs. Mayne's heart grew sick with apprehension when she saw their faces at dinner. Dick looked decidedly cross. To do him justice, the poor fellow was thoroughly miserable; but his aspect was cheerful compared to that of her husband. Mr. Mayne would not speak; neither would he eat. And even the footman, who took away the untasted viands, looked at his master with fear and trembling, his countenance was so gloomy. Dick did not seem to notice his father's failure of appetite; but Mrs. Mayne was one of those women who are given to fancy that if a man refuse his dinner there is something serious the matter with him. And as the meal proceeded she cast piteous looks at her son, but Dick totally ignored them. As soon as the servants had handed round the fruit, and had left the room, Mr. Mayne rose from the table, leaving his claret untasted, and shut himself into the library, first banging the door behind him, a sound that made his wife's heart palpitate. "Oh, Dick, what was happened to your father?" she asked, turning to her boy for comfort. But Dick was unusually sulky, and refused to answer. "You had better ask him, mother, if you are anxious to know," he replied, in a voice he very seldom used to her. "As for me, I am so sick of the whole thing, and feel myself so badly used, that I would rather not open my lips on the subject." Then Mrs. Mayne sighed, for she knew Dick had one of his obstinate fits on him, and that there would be no further word spoken by him that night.