“_You may tell your son, General Boyce,”_ said this voice, _“that I will not see him. I am sorry to have to say it to you, who have always been polite to me, but your son is not a good man or an honest man, and I wish never to see him again. With all my heart I wish, too, that we never had seen him, any of us._” An indistinct sound of pained remonstrance arose outside as the echoes of this first voice died away. Then followed a noise of footsteps ascending the carpeted stairs, and Horace’s empty, staring eyes had a momentary vision of a woman’s form passing rapidly upward, away from him. Then he stood face to face with his father--a bleared, swollen, indignant countenance it was that thrust itself close to his--and he heard his father say, huskily: “I am going. Let us get out of this house.” Horace mechanically started to follow. Then he remembered that he had left his hat behind, and went back into the drawing-room where Mrs. Minster sat. The absence of deep emotion on her statuesque face momentarily restored his own presence of mind. “You have heard your daughter?” he said, his head hanging in spite of himself, but his eyes keeping a strenuous scrutiny upon her face. “Yes: I don’t know what has come over Kate, lately,” remarked Mrs. Minster; “she always was the most curious girl.” “Curious, indeed!” He choked down the sneer which tempted him, and went on slowly: “You heard what she said--that I was dishonest, wicked. Where she has suddenly got this new view of me, doesn’t matter--at least, just at this moment. But I surely ought to ask if you--if you share it. Of course, if I haven’t your confidence, why, I must lay down everything.” “Oh, mercy, no! You mustn’t think of it,” the lady said, with animation. “I’m sure I don’t know in the least what it all means. I never do know with my daughters. They get all sorts of crazy notions. It makes my head ache sometimes wondering what they will do next--Kate, especially. No, you mustn’t mind her. You really mustn’t.” The young man’s manner had gradually taken on firmness, as if under a coat of ice. The glance which he still bent upon Mrs. Minster had a novel glitter in it now. “Then I am to remain your lawyer, in spite of this, as if it hadn’t happened?” “Why, bless me, yes! Why not? Girls will be girls, I suppose. At least, that is the saying. But--oh, by all means! You must see me through this dreadful trust business, though, as you say, it must all be better in the end than ever before.” “Good-day, Mrs. Minster. I shall continue, then, to hold myself at your service.” He spoke with the same grave slowness, and bowed formally, as if to go. The lady rose, and of her own volition offered him her hand. “Perhaps things will alter in her mind. I am so sorry!” she said. The young man permitted himself a ghostly half-smile. “It is only when I have thought it all over that I shall know whether I am sorry or not,” he said, and bowing again he left her.