“Angry? I should think so,” was his reply, as he endeavoured to harden his heart against the wilful girl whom yet (he was terribly ashamed of the uxorious weakness) he ardently longed to take to his heart and whisper the fond assurance that she was forgiven. “I should think I _was_ angry--ay, and precious angry too. Why, now, I should like to know how you came to act underhand in the way you have done, and that, too, from first to last? Why didn’t you write that you were riding about and amusing yourself? Why did you allow us--my mother and I--to think that your father was in difficulties, while all the time he could afford to keep horses, and give you all sorts of amusements? By George!”--and he gave a blow on the floor of the cab with his stout stick which must have sorely tested the strength of both--“by George! if anyone--if the best friends I have on earth--if the mother that bore me had said a month ago that she had seen what I have seen this night, I would not have believed her; and now--” “And now,” interrupted Honor, her tears checked as if by magic, and turning her large indignant eyes full upon her husband, “and _now_, what, pray, have you seen? You talk to me as if I had done something wicked, something disgraceful; whereas the worst crime of which I can excuse myself is a dread, a _horror_--I had better say the truth at last--of living with, and being tormented by, your mother. It is more than I can bear to live with her. I would rather beg my bread, rather be a servant a hundred thousand times, than go back to Mrs. Beacham and be treated as she has treated me. But,” suddenly letting down the window of the cab, and looking out into the street, “you are not really taking me back to Updown? John,” clasping her hands in wild entreaty, “I implore you not to let me live again at Pear-tree House. I don’t know why it is--I can’t account for it--but besides my being frightened at your mother, I have a fear upon me, a great dread, of that old house. Something, I am certain of it, as certain of it as that I am praying to you for kindness now, will happen if you take me home to Updown. I--” “You are a goose, my dear, and don’t know when you are well off. There, there, don’t cry any more. We are close upon the station now, and people will think I have been beating you.” The cab drew up to the entrance of the South-Western terminus as he spoke, and Honor, feeling that remonstrance was useless, allowed her arm to be passed through that of her legitimate guardian, and herself to be seated, with a very unwilling mind, in the carriage that was to convey her, luggageless and nervous, to the country home which she had learnt to loathe. CHAPTER X. “AS WELL AS CAN BE EXPECTED.”