'Very likely,' remarked his sister in a dry tone, and seated herself
under the chandelier with a book.

Horace slowly descended the stairs. At the foot he stood for a
moment, then moved towards his father's door. Another hesitancy,
though briefer, and he knocked for admission, which was at once
granted. Mr. Lord sat in his round-backed chair, smoking a pipe, on
his knees an evening paper. He looked at Horace from under his
eyebrows, but with good humour.

'Coming to report progress?'

'Yes, father,--and to talk over things in general.'

The slim youth--he could hardly be deemed more than a lad tried to
assume an easy position, with his elbow on the corner of the
mantelpiece; but his feet shuffled, and his eyes strayed vacantly.
It cost him an effort to begin his customary account of how things
were going with him at the shipping-office. In truth, there was
nothing particular to report; there never was anything particular;
but Horace always endeavoured to show that he had made headway, and
to-night he spoke with a very pronounced optimism.

'Very well, my boy,' said his father. 'If you are satisfied, I
shalltry to be the same. Have you your pipe with you?--At your age
I hadn't begun to smoke, and I should advise you to be moderate; but
we'll have a whiff together, if you like.'

'I'll go and fetch it,' Horace replied impulsively.