’ ‘What young lady?’ demanded a voice from the back of the hall. Jack was so harrassed that he felt half inclined to stand at bay. Unconscious that his movements were watched, Shotbolt, meanwhile, hastened towards Wych Street. "Halloa!" cried Jack, looking round, and trying to fix his inebriate gaze upon the speaker,—"who's that?" "Your mother," replied Mrs. " "Who's lost?" demanded Ireton. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. Perhaps that was the reason that they both remained standing.
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