remember all those, Clara," said she. "We must learn to talk about such
things. Mrs. Westmacott knows all about the brands of cigarettes. Has
your rum come?"

"Yes, dear. It is here."

"And I have my stout. Come along up to my room now. This smell is too
abominable. But we must be ready for him when he comes back. If we sit
at the window we shall see him coming down the road."

The fresh morning air, and the genial company of the Admiral had caused
the Doctor to forget his troubles, and he came back about midday in an
excellent humor. As he opened the hall door the vile smell of chemicals
which had spoilt his breakfast met him with a redoubled virulence. He
threw open the hall window, entered the dining-room, and stood aghast at
the sight which met his eyes.

Ida was still sitting among her bottles, with a lit cigarette in her
left hand and a glass of stout on the table beside her. Clara, with
another cigarette, was lounging in the easy chair with several maps
spread out upon the floor around. Her feet were stuck up on the coal
scuttle, and she had a tumblerful of some reddish-brown composition on
the smoking table close at her elbow. The Doctor gazed from one to the
other of them through the thin grey haze of smoke, but his eyes rested
finally in a settled stare of astonishment upon his elder and more
serious daughter.

"Clara!" he gasped, "I could not have believed it!"

"What is it, papa?"