Then he returns to the drawing-room. Sir Roger has gone to put on his
smoking-coat, I suppose. Father is alone with his wife and his two
lovely daughters. We make a faint movement toward effacing ourselves,
but our steps are speedily checked.

"Barbara! Nancy!"

"Yes, father" (in a couple of very small voices).

"May I ask what induced you to keep my guests waiting half an hour for
their dinner to-night?"

No manner of answer. _How_ hooked his nose looks! how fearfully like a
hawk he has grown all in a minute!

"When you have houses of your own," he continues with iced politeness,
"you may of course treat your visitors to what vagaries you please, but
as long as you deign, to honor _my_ roof with your presence, you will be
good enough to behave to my guests with decent civility, do you hear?"

"Well, Roger, how is the glass? up or down? What is it doing? Are we to
have a fine day to-morrow?"

For Roger apparently has got quickly into his smoking-coat: at least he
is here: he has heard all. Barbara and I _crawl_ away with no more
spring or backbone in us than a couple of torpid, wintery flies.

Five minutes later, "Do you wonder that we hate him?" cry I, with
flaming cheeks, holding a japanned candlestick in one hand, and Sir