"Mr. Muller never has enough of prayer-meetings," recklessly, "but I
have. I prefer going to bed to-night;" and she went up stairs.

Before her mother was gone, however, she began to change her dress,
putting on one which, when the cape was not worn, left her shoulders
and arms bare. She shook down her hair after the fashion of a portrait
in the book-shop of Kitty Clive, Peg Woffington or some other ancient
beauty more amiable than discreet. There was a delicious flavor of
wickedness in the taking out of every hairpin. Then she came down to
Peter where he sat smoking.

"In the dark, father? I'll light the candles;" which she did, scolding
Jane savagely between-times. "We'll have some old plays to-night,
father," bringing a book which her mother had forbidden, and then
bringing his sheepskin-lined chair up to the table. Peter eyed her
furtively as he puffed out his cigar to the last ash. On the stage
or in the ball-room he had never seen, he thought, a finer woman than
Catharine; and the old man's taste in beauty or dress or wine had been
keen enough when he was a young blood on the town. He was annoyed and
irritable.

"Catharine," he said sharply "bring your shawl: the night is chilly."
But he read the plays with outward good-humor, and with an inward
delight and gusto, which he would not betray. All his youth--that
old Peter Guinness, for whom each day's bumpers had been frothed so
high--came back in the familiar exits and entrances. The words were
innocent enough as he altered them in reading for Kitty, though a
good deal disjointed as to meaning; but she was not critical--forced
herself to take an interest in his stories of Burton and Kean, and how
he first saw old Jefferson.