"That's better!" he cried. "Morning, father," and he clasped the old man's hand. "Good-morning, my dear boy," was the answer, in trembling tones; and then, with the ghost of a smile on the wan lips, "have you been--" Morton had boisterously clasped Claire in his arms, and kissed her with effusion; and as he saw the loving, wistful look in his child's face, as she passionately returned the caress--one that he told himself would never again be bestowed on him--a pang shot through the old man's breast, and the agony seemed greater than he could bear. "So--so glad to see you down again, my dear, dear, dear old Sis," cried Morton, with a kiss at almost every word. Then, half holding her still, he turned to the pale, wistful face at the other side of the room, and exclaimed: "Yes, sir. Don't be angry with me. I _have_ been down again, catching dabs." Volume One, Chapter IX. WEARING HIS MASK. "Really, ladies, I--er--should--er--esteem it an honour, but my powers here are limited, and--" "Rubbish!" "You'll pardon me?" "I say--rubbish, Denville." "Mamma, will you hold your tongue?" "No, miss; if it comes to that, I won't! Speaking like that to your own mother, who's always working for you as I am, right out here on the open cliff, where goodness knows who mayn't--" "Mother, be silent!" "Silent, indeed!" "Ladies, ladies, you'll pardon me. I say my powers here are--er--very limited." "Yes, I know all about that, but you must get invitations for mamma and me for the next Assembly." "I'll try, Miss Dean, but--you'll pardon me--" "There, don't shilly-shally with him, Betsy; it's all business. Look here, Denville, the day the invitations come there'll be five guineas wrapped up in silver paper under the chayny shepherdess on my droring-room mantelpiece, if you'll just call and look under." "Really, Mrs Dean, you--you shock me. I could not think of--er-- really--er--I will try my best." "That you will, I know, Mr Denville. Don't take any notice of mamma I hope Miss Denville and Mrs Burnett are well." "In the best of health, Miss Dean, I thank you. I will--er--do my best. A lovely morning, Mrs Dean. Your humble servant. Miss Cora, yours. Good-morning." "A nasty old humbug; but he'll have the invitations sent," said Mrs Dean, a big, well-developed, well-preserved woman of fifty, with bright dark eyes that glistened and shone like pebbles polished by the constant attrition of the blinking lids.