Mrs. Mallory sat puzzling angrily over the character which daily baffled her more completely; its traits becoming more involved, enigmatical--nay, to her, insane. She considered this freak of his to display an eccentricity not short of insanity, but strangely enough she did not dare to tell him so. Did he care for any one? Was he so devoted to this lad, whom she disliked for his fantastic, unconventional habits and speech, and whom she would regard with contemptuous pity, as he sat, the morning long, at the piano, absorbed, with strange tossings of the head, and quaint, absent-minded wavings of the hands, and contortions of the body? Or was he only obstinate to have his own way, and provoke her, his mother? At this moment the door was opened, and Hugo entered, followed by the butler, with tea. Mrs. Mallory was too much annoyed to linger over that refreshment. She drank it quickly, and went to her writing-table, where she turned over the papers, listening vexedly the while to the talk between Sebastian and Hugo--talk in which she had no sort of share--about music, and foreign friends, and foreign countries; and she heard Hugo express his rejoicing that at last he could have an hour of Sebastian’s company, and she heard Sebastian answer, that he was glad too, for that he missed his companion. And she knew that the tone was one of genuine affection; that Mr. Mallory of the Oakenrod was perverse enough to pin his affections rather upon an eccentric, penniless German lad, than to make acquaintances which would be to his advantage; that her chance remark about the cleverness of the late Frau von Birkenau had been, in vulgar parlance, ‘a bad shot’--a very bad one indeed, and that she had not increased her own influence by making it. The laughs and chaff of Hugo and Sebastian became intolerable, as forming a running accompaniment to reflections of this nature. She made another shot, this time unconsciously; and this time she hit her mark, also unconsciously. Picking up a note which lay upon her table, she suddenly interrupted the conversation. ‘Sebastian, here is a note--it must go to you now, I suppose. I have nothing more to do with these affairs.’ He looked up; rose and came to fetch it; smiled as he took it; but she would not see either smile or look. ‘It is from Mr. Blisset,’ she remarked, apparently busily arranging her papers. ‘Something about repairs. I cannot imagine what he wants doing, I am sure.’ Sebastian and Hugo exchanged glances. ‘Mr. Blisset--who may he be!’ inquired Sebastian. ‘Your tenant. He lives at Stonegate, that place up at other end of the town, which your great-grandfather built, and which has always been a great deal more trouble than profit.’ ‘How long has this Mr. Blisset been its tenant?’ ‘I’m sure I don’t know. Eight or nine years, I think.’ ‘Do you know anything about him--who he is, or where he comes from?’ ‘No. He is an invalid--paralysed--a most crotchety, tiresome person.’