“Your father!” she screamed passionately, and a scar on her chin showed white against a suffused complexion; “don’t talk to me of your father. Before we were married, he often came to my uncle’s shop, and talked to me about books—I got up Haydn’s Dictionary of Dates, bits of Browning, and Lamb’s Essays, and Omar Khayyam. I had to study them in my own room at night, so as to make him think I was well educated and shared his tastes; but I did not; no,” she cried, with a stamp of her foot, “I _hated_ his tastes! Aristotle and Plato, yes, and Shakespeare—dull to the last degree, but I liked him: he was so handsome, so thoughtful, such a gentleman. And I believed that as he was madly in love I could easily twist him round to my way of thinking—but I was mistaken!” She paused, momentarily out of breath, then resumed: “He soon found me out and was sick of me in three weeks. He disliked dances, theatres, and smart society, and buried me alive in the country. We had nothing in common; he was just a bookworm, with a sarcastic tongue, who left me a beggar! Now I am free, I am going to be a rich woman, marry a man who understands me—and lead a new life.” “I see you are easily satisfied,” remarked her son. “I am; and although Mr. Levison is a Jew tradesman, as you have remarked in your nasty sneering way, he has been generous enough to offer you an opening as his assistant. He will take you into the shop and pay you two hundred a year.” “No, thank you,” replied Douglas stiffly; “I know nothing about old furniture.” “Only old family, I suppose! Well, you might do worse; and when you marry Cossie, as is probable, I will make you a small allowance.” (Shafto had relinquished his income of a hundred and fifty a year, and made it over to his mother legally, immediately he had come of age.) “I haven’t the smallest idea of marrying Cossie, or anyone else,” he answered, with white-faced decision. “Well, she, and indeed they _all_, expect it.” “I’ve never given them any reason to do so.” “Yes, you have,” she contradicted sharply; “you go there, sit by her, and take her into the garden.” “There is nothing in that,” he rejoined, too chivalrous to add that it was his cousin who sat by, escorted him, and clung to him like the traditional limpet. “She is five years older than you, I know, but very sweet-tempered, and not a bad manager—she runs ‘Monte Carlo’!” “Cossie is absolutely nothing to me beyond a cousin; nor have I ever given her reason to think otherwise—or ever shall.” “Oh, you are wonderfully bold and courageous here with _me_; I should like to hear you telling them this at ‘Monte Carlo’! I know my sister has set her heart on the match; she has been talking to me about the trousseau, and intends to give you table linen, and a silver tea-pot—she has two.” “Even the silver tea-pot would not bribe me!” declared Douglas with an angry laugh. “Well, I can assure you that it’s an understood thing,” persisted his parent, with spiteful emphasis.