‘I have got a pleasant surprise for you, my lad,’ he said gaily. ‘Some time ago—indeed it was before Maggie came to live with us—you had a friend whose companionship I thought was doing you no good, and I gave him the cold shoulder. It is never too late to own oneself in the wrong; he certainly did you no harm and perhaps intended none. It is only natural that you should have friends of your own age, and that they should be made welcome in your father’s house; so, as you told me he was in town, I sent round a note to him to ask him to drop in to-night to supper.’ Before William Henry could reply the door opened and the servant announced Mr. Reginald Talbot. The new-comer was a fresh-complexioned young gentleman of about eighteen or so, rather clumsily built for his age, with long, reddish-brown hair and bold eyes. They did not look at all like near-sighted eyes, but he wore round his neck what was then called a quizzing-glass, held by the hand, through which he now surveyed the present company. His attire, if not more fashionable than Mr. Erin’s guests were wont to wear, showed a much greater taste for colours. His waistcoat was heavily laced, and the buckles on his shoes, if, as was probable, they were not made of real diamonds, shone by candlelight as though they had been. ‘It is very kind of you, Mr. Erin,’ he said, ‘’pon honour, to let me drop in in this way. If I had known that there were ladies present’—here he glanced at Margaret and bowed like a dancing master—‘I would have put on more suitable apparel.’ ‘Pooh, pooh! you’re smart enough,’ said Mr. Erin in a tone in which contempt and politeness struggled ludicrously for the upper hand. ‘This is only my niece, Margaret Slade; there’s your old friend, William Henry. Didn’t I say, my lad’—here he turned to his son and clapped him on the shoulder—‘that I had got a surprise for you?’ Of course Mr. Erin had meant it well, just as he had done when he had made him that priceless present of ‘Stokes, the Vaulting Master,’ but, as in that case, it would have seemed to a close observer that he had not exactly hit upon the meed of merit most to William Henry’s fancy. That young gentleman shook hands indeed with the new-comer cordially enough, but, whether from surprise or some other cause, could at first find no better topic to converse upon than the weather. ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘you have not been having much more sun where you have come from than we have had.’ ‘Sun!’ echoed the other drily. ‘I suppose there is not much difference in the weather of Norfolk Street and that of the Strand. I have been in London, as I wrote to you I should be, these ten days, and not a hundred yards away, if you had cared to come and see me.’ ‘I didn’t understand that from your letter,’ stammered William Henry. ‘I thought—— ‘