‘Oh, and Mr. Langham!’ Catherine called after him as he strode away, ‘will you settle with Robert about the carriage?’ He turned, made a sound of assent, and went on. ‘When?’ asked Rose lightly. ‘For the nine-o’clock train.’ ‘There should be a law against interfering with people’s breakfast hour,’ said Rose; ‘though, to, be sure, a guest may as well get himself gone early and be done with it. How you and Robert raced, Cathie! We did our best to catch you up, but the pace was too good.’ Was there a wild taunt, a spice of malice in the girl’s reckless voice? Catherine could not see her in the darkness, but the sister felt a sudden trouble invade her. ‘Rose darling, you are not tired?’ ‘Oh dear no! Good-night, sleep well. What a goose Mrs. Darcy is!’ And, barely submitting to be kissed, Rose ran up the steps and upstairs. Langham and Robert smoked till midnight. Langham for the first time gave Elsmere an outline of his plans for the future, and Robert, filled with dismay at this final breach with Oxford and human society, and the only form of practical life possible to such a man, threw himself into protests more and more vigorous and affectionate. Langham listened to them at first with sombre silence, then with an impatience which gradually reduced Robert to a sore puffing at his pipe. There was a long space during which they sat together, the ashes of the little fire Robert had made dropping on the hearth, and not a word on either side. At last Elsmere could not bear it, and when midnight struck he sprang up with an impatient shake of his long body, and Langham took the hint, gave him a cold good-night, and went. As the door shut upon him, Robert dropped back into his chair, and sat on, his face in his hands, staring dolefully at the fire. It seemed to him the world was going crookedly. A day on which a man of singularly open and responsive temper makes a new enemy, and comes nearer than ever before to losing an old friend, shows very blackly to him in the calendar, and by way of aggravation, a Robert Elsmere says to himself at once, that somehow or other there must be fault of his own in the matter. Rose!--pshaw! Catherine little knows what stuff that cold, intangible soul is made of.