“‘Birds of a feather flock together,’” said the lady; “and if Mr. Aspinall’s son associates with that reckless and dishonest Kit Townley, he is a very unfit friend for John Walmsley, and still worse for our dear Augusta.” “Just so; for a dashing blade with a handsome face, who sports a uniform, talks poetry, and sings sentimental songs, is just the fellow to take a silly girl’s fancy, before she is old enough to think. I know I regret I ever brought him _here_,” said Mr. Ashton seriously, as Augusta came in the room to breakfast, entering at the door behind her mother’s back. “Well, William,” observed Mrs. Ashton loftily, her hand on the china coffee-pot, “you can imagine _my_ annoyance when John and Mr. Laurence walked in arm-in-arm last night, after the liberty he had taken in the morning—kissing his hand to our daughter from the public procession in the face of all our friends, as if Augusta had been a flaunting barmaid. I was most indignant!” Augusta said “Good morning,” and took her seat with a heightened colour. Such a construction of the gallant officer’s salute had not occurred to her, and native delicacy took alarm. Mrs. Ashton continued to pour out her thoughts along with the coffee. It was fit Augusta should know her sentiments on this head. “It would have been a breach of hospitality to resent it before our friends, and not good policy either. But I shall put a stop to his visits henceforth.” “Oh! mamma,” exclaimed Augusta, dropping her hands at this climax, “you cannot mean that!” “Yes, my dear, I do. If Mr. Aspinall has depraved associates, he must be depraved himself; and I am sure my daughter”—she drew herself up proudly—“would not choose her friends from those of Christopher Townley.” Augusta’s colour suffered no decrease. She paused as she was taking her dry toast from the silver rack, and half-hesitatingly remonstrated. “Of course I should not wish to associate with Mr. Townley’s friends. But papa may be mistaken. I do not think Mr. Aspinall would mix with them. People meet and mingle at coach-offices who are strangers.” “Just so, my dear; but——” interposed her father. “Why, mamma,” the persistent young lady went on, “no more perfect gentleman enters our doors than Mr. Laurence Aspinall. His manners are most refined. Then he talks enchantingly, and sings divinely. And”—this she thought conclusive—“is he not intimate with Charlotte and John?” “Just so,” quickly answered Mr. Ashton, glancing across the table at his attentive wife, “and all the worse for Charlotte and John. I shall have a word with them on the subject. I called in Marsden Square on my way home, and found Charlotte with red eyes. John had not been home all night.” And Mr. Ashton battered the top of an egg whilst delivering what he regarded as a crushing argument.