But he was once more in Mrs. Stenhouse's drawing-room, where there was no longer any newspaper to excite him out of his senses--calmly seated among people who were pursuing the common way of life, without any stronger stimulant than a flirtation or common project of marriage among them. Sir John, whose indolence was no match for the obstinacy of Horace, was carrying on, as well as he could, the talk with Amelia, which the entrance of "that cub" had interrupted; while Amelia herself did her best to subdue the tone of that exceedingly interesting consultation, in acknowledgment of the presence of her too ardent lover. Somehow, Horace's entrance, and all the restrained passion, unintelligible to them, which he carried about him, made the whole party uneasy. Amelia remembered with terror that, if provoked, he knew of somebody who could turn them out of doors, and leave them penniless. Mrs. Stenhouse regarded him with a vague awe, as holding in his hands at once her husband's good name and the well-being of her son; while Musgrave, with a good deal of natural exasperation, sat in the same room with the man who was in the secret of some conspiracy against himself, yet showed no compunction towards him, and who had tried to blacken his youthful character to his dearest friends. Nobody pretended that he was welcome in that house--not even timid Mrs. Stenhouse nor Amelia; yet he went--secure in his power;--went and set himself by Amelia's elbow, turning his passionate looks upon her, while, from one cause and another, nobody dared venture to say to him how little welcome he was. That day, however, destroyed the strange incubus to which his presence had grown. The post came in while Horace sat in Mrs. Stenhouse's drawing-room. Roger had some letters, and opened them without waiting to be alone. When he had glanced over one he turned doubtfully, yet with some eagerness, towards the visitor. "Mr. Scarsdale," he said, quietly, "Colonel Sutherland is at Marchmain." Horace did not fall down, or cry out, as he might have done; but, in the extremity of his startled horror, he rose bolt upright, and stood with his face blanched out of all natural colour. He could not speak, it was evident, for a minute; then he said, with a strange blank voice out of his throat, "My father is dead!" "No, not dead--not so bad as that--but ill, I confess," said Roger, kindly, quite melted by what seemed to him an overflowing of natural feeling; "only ill; don't look so alarmed--not even seriously or alarmingly ill, so far as Colonel Sutherland says. Pray, read the letter yourself."