had reminded himself more than once. In the name of common sense,
what had dead and buried Tommy Hope to do with this affair? The
whole thing was the veriest sentiment, and sentiment was Mr. Peter
Hope's abomination. Had he not penned articles innumerable
pointing out its baneful influence upon the age? Had he not always
condemned it, wherever he had come across it in play or book? Now
and then the suspicion had crossed Peter's mind that, in spite of
all this, he was somewhat of a sentimentalist himself--things had
suggested this to him. The fear had always made him savage.

"You wait here till I come back," he growled, seizing the
astonished Tommy by the worsted comforter and spinning it into the
centre of the room. "Sit down, and don't you dare to move." And
Peter went out and slammed the door behind him.

"Bit off his chump, ain't he?" remarked Tommy to Elizabeth, as the
sound of Peter's descending footsteps died away. People had a way
of addressing remarks to Elizabeth. Something in her manner
invited this.

"Oh, well, it's all in the day's work," commented Tommy cheerfully,
and sat down as bid.

Five minutes passed, maybe ten. Then Peter returned, accompanied
by a large, restful lady, to whom surprise--one felt it
instinctively--had always been, and always would remain, an unknown
quantity.

Tommy rose.