d been
naughty again. My host, taking the place of my father, would be vexed
because I had missed prayers.

My reception did little to disperse my sense of shame. The air of Sunday
morning enveloped the whole party. Even Hughes and Frank Jervaise were
dressed as for a special occasion in black tail-coats and gray trousers
that boasted the rigidity of a week's pressing. Not only had I been guilty
of cutting family prayers; I was convicted, also of disrespect on another
count. My blue serge and bright tie were almost profane in those
surroundings. The thought of how I had spent the night convicted me as a
thorough-going Pagan.

"I hope you managed to get a little sleep, Mr. Melhuish," Mrs. Jervaise
said tepidly. "We are having breakfast half an hour later than usual, but
you were so very late last night."

I began to mumble something, but she went on, right over me, speaking in a
voice that she obviously meant to carry "And Brenda isn't down even now,"
she said. "In fact she's having breakfast in her own room, and I am not at
all sure that we shan't keep her there all day. She has the beginning of a
nasty cold brought on by her foolishness--and, besides, she has been very,
very naughty and will have to be punished." She gave a touch of grim
playfulness to her last sentence, but I should not in any case have taken
her statement seriously. If I knew anything of our Brenda, it was that she
was not the sort of young lady who would submit to being kept in her own
room as a punishment.

"I hope the cold won't be serious," was all I could find to say.

I looked at Mr. Jervaise, who was standing despondently by the fireplace,
but he did not return my glance. He presented, I thought, the picture of
despair, and I suffered a sharp twinge of reaction from my championship of
the Banks interest at sunrise. Those two protagonists of the drama, Banks
and Brenda, were so young, eager and active. Life held so much promise for
them. This ageing man by the fireplace--he must have been nearly
sixty--had probably ceased to live for his own interests. His ambitions
were now centred in his children. I began to feel an emotional glow of
sympathy for him in his distress. Probably this youngest, most brilliant,
child of his was also the most tenderly loved. It might well be that his
anxiety was for her rather than for himself; that the threat to his pride
of family was almost forgotten in his sincere wish for his daughter's
happiness. It woul