e head she
frowned at her mother's reproaches for being late! This family knew the
meaning of intimacy but not of ceremony. Laurencine sat down at her
father's left; George was next to her on Mrs. Ingram's right. Lois had
the whole of the opposite side of the table.

"Does he know?" Laurencine asked; and turning to George: "Do you know?"

"Know what?"

"You'd better tell him, dad. You like talking, and he ought to know. I
shan't be able to eat if he doesn't. It would be so ridiculous sitting
here and pretending."

Mrs. Ingram looked upwards across the room at a corner of the ceiling,
and smiled faintly.

"You might," she said, "begin by asking Mr. Cannon if he particularly
wants to be burdened with the weight of your secrets, my dear child."

"Oh! I particularly do," said George.

"There's no secret about it--at least there won't be soon," said
Laurencine.

Lois spoke simultaneously:

"My dear mother, please call George George. If we call him George, you
can't possibly call him Mr. Cannon."

"I quite admit," Mrs. Ingram replied to her eldest, "I quite admit that
you and Laurencine are entitled to criticise my relations with my
husband, because he's your father. But I propose to carry on my affairs
with other men just according to my own ideas, and any interference will
be resented. I've had a bad night, owing to the garage again, and I
don't feel equal to calling George George. I've only known him about
twenty minutes. Moreover, I might be misunderstood, mightn't I, Mr.
Cannon?"

"You might," said George.

"Now, dad!" Laurencine admonished.

Mr. Ingram, addressing George, began:

"Laurencine suffers from a grave form of self-consciousness----"

"I don't, dad."

"It is a disease akin to conceit. Her sufferings are sometimes so acute
that she cannot sit up straight and is obliged to loll and curl her legs
round the legs of the chair. We are all very sorry for her. The only
treatment is brutal candour, as she herself advocates----"

Laurencine jumped up, towered over her father, and covered his mouth
with her hand.

"This simple hand," said Mr. Ingram, seizing it, "will soon bear a ring.
Laurencine is engaged to be married."

"I'm not, father." She sat down again.

"Well, you are not. But you will be, I presume, by post-time to-night. A
young man of the name of Lucas has written to Laurencine this morning in
a certain sense, and he has also written to me. Laurencine has seen my
letter, and I've