s wrath had an ill effect upon Horace. Of an
amiable disposition, and without independence of character, he might
have been guided by a judicious parent through all the perils of his
calf-love for Fanny French; thrown upon his own feeble resources, he
regarded himself as a victim of the traditional struggle between prosaic
age and nobly passionate youth, and resolved at all hazards to follow
the heroic course--which meant, first of all, a cold taciturnity towards
his father, and, as to his future conduct, a total disregard of the
domestic restraints which he had hitherto accepted. In a day or two
he sat down and wrote his father a long letter, of small merit as a
composition, and otherwise illustrating the profitless nature of the
education for which Stephen Lord had hopefully paid. It began with
a declaration of rights. He was a man; he could no longer submit
to childish trammels. A man must not be put to inconvenience by
the necessity of coming home at early hours. A man could not brook
cross-examination on the subject of his intimacies, his expenditure, and
so forth. Above all, a man was answerable to no one but himself for his
relations with the other sex, for the sacred hopes he cherished, for
his emotions and aspirations which transcended even a man's
vocabulary.--With much more of like tenor.

To this epistle, delivered by post, Mr. Lord made no answer.

Horace flattered himself that he had gained a victory. There was nothing
like 'firmness,' and that evening, about nine, he went to De Crespigny
Park. As usual, he had to ring the bell two or three times before any
one came; the lively notes of a piano sounded from the drawing-room,
intimating, no doubt, that Mrs. Peachey had guests. The door at length
opened, and he bade the servant let Miss. Fanny know that he was here;
he would wait in the dining-room.

It was not yet dark, but objects could only just be distinguished; the
gloom supplied Horace with a suggestion at which he laughed to himself.
He had laid down his hat and cane, when a voice surprised him.

'Who's that?' asked some one from the back of the room.

'Oh, are _you_ there, Mr. Peachey?--I've come to see Fanny. I didn't
care to go among the people.'

'All right. We'd better light the gas.'

With annoyance, Horace saw the master of the house come forward, and
strike a match. Remains of dinner were still on the table. The two
exchanged glances.

'How is your father?' Peachey inquired. He had a