finely traced brows, and the thoughtful, humorous eyes were all perfect
in their way, and yet the combination left something to be desired.
There was a vague sense of a flaw somewhere, in feature or in
expression, which resolved itself, when analysed, into a slight
out-turning and droop of the lower lip; small indeed, and yet pronounced
enough to turn what would have been a beautiful face into a merely
pretty one. Very despondent and somewhat cross she looked as she leaned
back in the armchair, the tangle of bright-coloured silks and of drab
holland upon her lap, her hands clasped behind her head, with her snowy
forearms and little pink elbows projecting on either side.

"I know he won't come," she repeated.

"Nonsense, Laura! Of course he'll come. A sailor and afraid of the
weather!"

"Ha!" She raised her finger, and a smile of triumph played over her
face, only to die away again into a blank look of disappointment.
"It is only papa," she murmured.

A shuffling step was heard in the hall, and a little peaky man, with his
slippers very much down at the heels, came shambling into the room.
Mr. McIntyre, sen., was pale and furtive-looking, with a thin straggling
red beard shot with grey, and a sunken downcast face. Ill-fortune
and ill-health had both left their marks upon him. Ten years before he
had been one of the largest and richest gunmakers in Birmingham, but a
long run of commercial bad luck had sapped his great fortune, and had
finally driven him into the Bankruptcy Court. The death of his wife on
the very day of his insolvency had filled his cup of sorrow, and he had
gone about since with a stunned, half-dazed expression upon his weak