It was at this dramatic pause that the landlady and her daughter, returning from envious viewing of the Quality rolling by in the Park, came upon the scene. The Major, with wonted gallantry, and a somewhat wide miss or two of his hand at the object, swept off his hat; but the effort lost him his legs, and he suddenly sat upon the steps--the hat flinging out into the road, where it was rushed off with a wild whoop by triumphant urchins and became the football of a fierce game, in which many goals were kicked over neighbouring lamp-posts. The two women, brushing their skirts aside, passed by the fallen Major haughtily. He made a vigorous effort to go up the steps on all fours after the ladies; he reached the topmost as they slammed the door in his face. He sat on the doorstep, and shook his head sadly.... Thus Anthony Baddlesmere found him. Anthony was slackening his pace, hesitant, wondering how to avoid the embarrassment of getting into the house--there was the rustle of a girl’s dress as she flipped past him, light feet ran up the steps, and Betty, ringing the bell, stooped down, gave her father her arm, and, as he struggled to his feet, led him into the yawning doorway. Anthony stepped in after them; and the door was shut. He felt a sudden sense of shame that he had allowed the girl to do what he himself had a little feared to do; and he helped her now to get her father up the stairs and into his room. Arrived thereat and entering, she led the poor dazed soul to an armchair, settled him there comfortably, with mother hands, then went to the windows and flung them open. When she turned, it was to find two angry women in the room--the landlady and her daughter had entered without leave or asking, and instantly began a torrent of upbraiding. Betty went to them: “He cannot understand now--better come to-morrow morning,” she said gently; and they, opening the door, conquering a stubborn desire to stay, slowly went out. Anthony hesitated, not quite knowing what to do. He looked at the girl. The firm mouth was set; but there was no sign of complaint nor of anger upon her. He felt a certain meanness in the object of the journey from which he was just returned. The poor drunken man began to upbraid himself. “Hush, father,” said the girl---- He hiccupped: “I am very drunk,” he said. “Why deny it?” “Ah, father! that you should have come out into the day at last!... I have feared this--for years.” He tearfully protested that he never tasted any drink stronger than coffee before the sun set--and this came of breaking his principles. The girl laughed sadly, and went to the window. “Betty,” said Anthony at last--“can I do nothing for you?” She shook her head: “Nothing,” she said. “His will is gone.” She was acquiring knowledge of the world early, this girl--and at first-hand.