"Miss Cheffington is very much in the world, of course. Her birth and her beauty entitle her to a good deal of attention, and she gets it. I see no objection to that. On the contrary, it delights me that she should be admired." His step-mother stared at him in sudden surprise. "Theodore!" she exclaimed impulsively. "There is nothing between you and May, is there?" He drew himself up, and answered in as coldly offended a tone as though he had not desired, and even angled for, that very question. "Excuse me, Mrs. Bransby, but I do not think it well to use a young lady's name in that way. It is too delicate a matter to be handled at all in its present stage." "Don't you believe him, mother," said Martin when Theodore had gone away. "May Cheffington isn't likely to think of _him_." "I don't know, Martin. It may not seem likely to us, because----" "Because we know what Theodore is," interposed Martin boldly. His mother let that suggestion lie, but she said, "You must remember, my boy, that Theodore has many qualities which--which----He is very well educated, and clever, and gentlemanlike." "No; that he is _not_!" put in the irrepressible Martin. "And he probably has a distinguished career before him. Besides, he is rich now, you know." "As if May would care for _that_!" exclaimed Martin, with innocently lofty disdain. "Her friends might care for it for her," answered Mrs. Bransby thoughtfully. She had fallen into the habit of consulting with Martin on all kinds of subjects. Sometimes she reproached herself for harassing the boy with cares and questions beyond his years. But, in truth, it would have been impossible at that time to keep Martin from sharing her cares; and the pride of being allowed to share her counsels also, more than made him amends. Mrs. Bransby had a lodger now--a lodger who was the incubus of her life. He was an elderly German, engaged in the City; and, besides occupying the chamber which Theodore had ordained must be let if possible, he breakfasted with the family every day, and dined with them on Sundays. The man was vulgar, greedy, and sullen in his manners. His habits at table, without being absolutely gross, were revolting to Mrs. Bransby's refinement. And his exigencies on the score of the Sunday dinner were such as to keep her in constant anxiety, and to excite boundless indignation in Phoebe. Phoebe, indeed, so detested Mr. Bucher, that Mrs. Bransby was occasionally reduced to beg for a cessation of hostilities; and (very much against the grain) to plead Mr. Bucher's cause even with tears in her eyes.