This was something very unusual for Mr. Tallant. Proud as he undoubtedly was of Phœbe’s beauty, hers was a sort of negative existence in his mind. Richard, her brother, had engrossed nearly all his thoughts. Phœbe was like a simple flower adorning the name of Tallant;--but Richard, he would build up the house and perpetuate the name, and be the grand, educated successor of his father. Once or twice, however, within the few previous months, grave doubts as to the propriety of his son’s conduct had crossed the merchant’s mind; but these had been to a great extent dispelled by a few words of conversation with his son. Of course, the young fellow had been educated at Oxford, and had thoughts, and feelings, and aspirations altogether different to his father’s. The old man understood this to a certain extent, but “honour, Dick; remember, that does not come with college education, my boy,” Mr. Tallant would say; “don’t let Latin, and Greek, and mythology, and grand acquaintances shake plain old Saxon notions of honour and honesty, and paying your way, and owing no man, and all those old-fashioned things which have made the name of Tallant foremost in the city of London.” But Richard Tallant was in the whirlpool of fast life, of speculation, of financial scheming, of gambling; and at length he reached the vortex, with all the good lessons and examples of his father upon his head. So these newspapers, as we have said, were dried, and whilst a couple were sent up-stairs to Mr. Tallant, two were taken into the drawing-room to Miss Tallant and her friend, Miss Somerton. Never did papers contain so much to startle and interest two girls before. The Eastern Bank meeting, and the exposure of Richard Tallant; the charge of robbery against Paul Somerton; and a paragraph recording the departure of the troop-ship _Atlas_ for India, with Captain the Hon. Lionel Hammerton on board. They mastered it all at last, and clung to each other in terror and amazement. It seemed almost as if the world had suddenly come to an end. Phœbe looked round, as if to assure herself that she was at home. There was no mistaking this. The familiar chairs and cabinets, and pictures and statuettes, all seemed to look reassuringly at her. Amy took things in a more demonstrative fashion. She pressed her hand to her head, and then broke forth into a low wail of pain. “And I did not know that he even intended to leave the country,” said Amy, by-and-by, all her thoughts concentrated upon Lionel Hammerton. Phœbe, with her brother’s disgrace, her father’s misery, and Paul Somerton’s troubles, each agitating her mind in turns, had scarcely thought for a moment of the sudden and unexplained departure of Lionel Hammerton. Arthur Phillips might have told her of it, but the artist had not been near Barton Hall for more than a month. He had written a note of apology, and explaining that his absence was necessary for the completion of some important work upon which he was engaged.