'I meant to ask Horace to go with us.'

'Horace--pooh!'

Again a silence. Mr. Lord laid down his cup, moved a few steps away, and
turned back.

'I didn't think this kind of thing was in your way,' he said gruffly. 'I
thought you were above it.'

Nancy defended herself as she had done to Jessica, but without the
playfulness. In listening, her father seemed to weigh the merits of the
case conscientiously with wrinkled brows. At length he spoke.

'Horace is no good. But if Samuel Barmby will go with you, I make no
objection.'

A movement of annoyance was Nancy's first reply. She drummed with her
fingers on the table, looking fixedly before her.

'I certainly can't ask Mr. Barmby to come with us,' she said, with an
effort at self-control.

'Well, you needn't. I'll speak about it myself.'

He waited, and again it chanced that their eyes met. Nancy, on the point
of speaking, checked herself. A full minute passed, and Stephen stood
waiting patiently.

'If you insist upon it,' said Nancy, rising from her chair, 'we will
take Mr. Barmby with us.'

Without comment, Mr. Lord left the room, and his own door closed rather
loudly behind him.

Not long afterwards Nancy heard a new foot in the passage, and her
brother made his appearance. Horace had good looks, but his face showed
already some of the unpleasant characteristics which time had developed
on that of Stephen Lord, and from which the daughter was entirely free;
one judged him slow of intellect and weakly self-willed. His hair was
of pale chestnut, the silky pencillings of his moustache considerably
darker. His cheek, delicately pink and easily changing to a warmer hue,
his bright-coloured lips, and the limpid glistening of his eyes, showed
him of frail constitution; he was very slim, and narrow across
the shoulders. The fashion of his attire tended to a dandiacal
extreme,--modish silk hat, lavender necktie, white waistcoat, gaiters
over his patent-leather shoes, gloves crushed together in one hand,
and in the other a bamboo cane. For the last year or two he had been
progressing in this direction, despite his father's scornful remarks and
his sister's good-natured mockery.

'Father in yet?' he asked at the door of the dining-room, in subdued
voice.

Nancy nodded, and the young man withdrew to lay aside his outdoor
equipments.

'What sort of temper?' was his question when he returned.

'Pretty good--until I spoilt it.'

Horace exhibited a pettish annoy