‘This preposterous stuff must be put an end to. I will see my sister.’ Oliver flung out of his room, and encountered Fan hovering over the breakfast-table, and looking fresh yet pale, like a solitary daisy blooming in a sheltered corner. CHAPTER XXIV. FAN’S TRIUMPH. ‘Come along, Fan, to the front door, where the fellow has retreated. Here is a fluke, but the sooner you deal with it the better; you must spoil your breakfast, and have done with it. Harry Stanhope is as mad as a hatter this morning, and nothing will bring him back to soberness of mind save your giving him his _congé_ in so many words. This is speaking plainly. Are you not amazed? I imagine you never apprehended such a desperately moonshiny business from Stanhope, who’s in a general way commonplace and matter-of-fact in his greenness. But come along, it will not do to keep the young idiot waiting.’ ‘But what if there are two of us as mad as hatters?’ said Fan, blushing and brightening up like the white daisy when the red tips of its petals catch the beams of the sun. ‘Fan, you cannot be so crazy, so weak to imbecility!’ cried Oliver, incredulously; and then, as his unbelief began to be shaken by her looks, still more than her words, he protested passionately on her account: ‘A boy like Harry Stanhope! the merest boy in his fancies, as you have had abundant proof; hardly responsible for his actions, not fit to know his own mind, as sure to change as the wind.’ ‘He is not so much younger a boy than you are, Oliver,’ said Fan, with restrained spirit. ‘He is a little older than I am in years, and I don’t feel so very youthful in spirit. I should be inclined to think I was capable of knowing my own mind, and being held responsible for my actions. But, no doubt, women are a great deal older, in proportion, than men. You are all boys to us,’ said Fan, with demure motherliness. ‘I have even ventured to call a sage like you a boy.’ ‘Fan,’ said Oliver, ‘don’t drive me beside myself. This is no occasion for teasing, and I could not have believed you the woman to begin to tease in such circumstances. I have been accustomed to think you sensible, capable of self-respect, rather proud than meek. Have you considered what sort of beggar Stanhope is, apart from his birth and breeding, and the grace which they have given him. He is feather-headed and an empty canister—if ever there were one. He has never thought of anything save his own pleasure since he was born. He is incapable of self-restraint, even if he knew the thing by name. He is the incarnation of selfishness—genial and jolly now, I grant you, but which will without fail grow coarser and harder with years. At forty Harry Stanhope’s stupidity and self-indulgence will be palpable to the shallowest intellect, and so may his grossness—even his brutality—if his good angel do not interfere.’