Dr. Gregg made a movement as if he would have put her out of the room. But her presence had a little sobered him, and he stopped. “Look here,” he said. “One!” cried Daintry, who knew well that the doctor had a particular dislike for Snorum, and that the dog’s presence was at any time enough to drive him from the house. He turned and looked at Kate. She had gone to the window and was gazing out, her back to him, her figure proud and scornful. “Miss Bonamy,” he said. “Two!” cried Daintry. “Are you going, or shall I fetch Snorum?” With a muttered oath he took up his hat and went down the stairs and out into the street. There at the door he stood a moment, grinding his teeth, as the full sense of the calamity which had befallen him came home to him. He had stooped and been rejected—had been rejected by Bonamy’s daughter. He walked away, and still his anger did not decrease, but all the same he began to be a little thankful that the child had interrupted him. Had he gone on he might have said too much. As it was, he had an idea that perhaps he had said more than was quite prudent. And this had presently a wonderful effect in the way of sobering him. CHAPTER XII. THE RECTOR IS UNGRATEFUL. It was tea-time at Mr. Bonamy’s; five-thirty, that is, for the lawyer knew nothing of four o’clock tea. He would have stared had he been invited into the drawing-room to take it, or had his daughters produced one of those dainty afternoon tea-tables which were in use at the Town House, and asked him to support his cup and saucer on his knee. Compromises found no favor with him. Tea was a meal—he had always so considered it; and he liked to have the dining-room table laid for it. Possibly Kate, had she enjoyed more of her own way, would have altered this, as she would certainly have reformed the drawing-room. But Mr. Bonamy, who was in many things an indulgent father, was conservative in some. Four o’clock tea, and a daily use of the drawing-room, were refinements which he had always regarded as peculiar to a certain set; and in his pride he would not appear to ape its ways or affect to belong to it. Almost to the moment he came into the room, which was as bright and cheerful as gaslight and firelight could make it. Laying some letters under a weight on the mantel-shelf, he turned round and stood with his back to the fire-place. “How is the child?” he asked. “Has she gone to bed?” “Yes,” Kate answered, lifting the lid of the teapot and looking in; “I think she will be all right after a night’s rest.” “You do not look very bright yourself, Kate,” he remarked, as he sat down. Her cheek flushing, she made the old old woman’s excuse. “I have a little headache,” she said. “It will be better when I have had my tea.” He took a piece of toast and buttered it deliberately. “Gregg came and saw her?” he asked. “Yes. He said it was only a sick headache, and would pass off.”