Jenny, indeed, glided round like velvet, was
neat-handed, made no clatter, and, with her
ribbons and chintz dress, looked almost like a
theatre peasant.

The young ladies were absorbed in the recent
adventures of Major Canby—Augusta, to whom
the family had, after deliberation, allotted Mr.
Tillotson, an arrangement always honourably
adhered to by the sisters, combining her attention
to her military connexions with a skill that
was surprising, and the result of long training.
The best of Mr. Canby's adventures was an
incident connected with the railway.

"I knew I should be late, so I sent my feller
at once for a cab—got down the traps uncommon
quick, I can tell you—but all along, you
see, the feller was taking his time. Well, I got
in, and what do you think the feller did? Got
behind a wretched beer-cart, and kept behind it
all the way. 'Pon my word he did. I was in a
fever, you know. I don't know if the beer-cart
was running for the train, but it looked uncommon
like it."

In uncontrollable laughter, the two girls had
to lay down their knives and forks. Major
Canby laughed himself good humouredly. The
narrative was suspended for a few moments.

"I assure you it's a fact," he said. "I thought
we should never have done with that beer-cart.
I called to the feller—I shouted to him—but I
saw it was all up."

"Oh, how dreadful!" said the second Miss
Tilney, in a tone of sympathy, "to miss a train,
and have to wait—"

"Oh, it wasn't that, you know. Oh, I caught
it—five minutes to spare. But wasn't it good—
the beer-cart, you know?"

"Eh! what's that?" said Mr. Tilney, coming
into the conversation. "I did not catch it.
Something good, / know."

"Oh, you must tell papa," she said; "he won't
let you off."

"Oh, it was only a curious thing about a beer-
cart, as I was running for the train," said Mr.
Canby, modestly; and good naturedly began the
story over again.

Mr. Tillotson was speaking, too, to another
person—speaking thoughtfully and amusingly.
But his narration was scarcely received with the
enthusiasm that welcomed the beer-cart. He
told of some of the more sensible phases of
town life, and especially a strange story of a
luckless banker-friend who had failed, and then
was supposed to have taken poison. He told
these things without vanity, or without thinking
of himself, and with some dramatic effect, and
then he found thoughtful eyes—looking out from
under yellow hair—fixed on him. That face,
certainly of all faces in the room, best understood
him. Then she asked questions, short, eager,
and enthusiastic questions, which betrayed her
temperament to Mr. Tillotson, and showed how
interested she was.

This attracted a wary sister. "A poor banker,
dear!" she said, scornfully. "It was very dreadful,
of course. "What private romance have you
in the matter?"

Doctor Topham looked up from his plate—he
always ate stooping over, and in a greedy way,
like the great Dr. Samuel Johnson. "Romance!"
he said; "fiddlestick! I'd like to see one of my
daughters setting up for romance. I wouldn't
let a grain of it into my house, nor my brother
Frederick, who is at the Treasury, into his. Who
do you say is romantic?"

Augusta tittered. "Oh, Doctor Topham, how
hard you are on poor Ada. Why will you say
those things, Ada?"

All the table looked at the golden-haired girl,
who coloured. Mr. Tillotson spoke in a low,
calm, clear voice. "But what a world it would
be without romance—no colouring, nothing but
iron bars and stone walls. It would be unendurable
for all of us. Besides, Miss Millwood was
not saying a word about romance. It was
anything but romantic what I was speaking of—a
poor banker who destroyed himself."

Doctor Topham did not, like being contradicted,
and still less being set right on any matter.

"I did not hear your banker's story, sir," he
said, "and was speaking of the way I would bring
up my family."

"Two different trains of ideas," said Mr.
Tilney, nervously.

"Perhaps so," said Mr. Tillotson, indifferently.

"At any rate, we have romance in the house,"
said Ross, with a sneer, "in great force, and no
mistake. A professor, it seems."

"I have not brought it in," said Mr. Tillotson,
good humouredly. "If you only knew me, you
would find it fitted me less than any one in the
world."

"No," said Ross; "I believe that is not
much in your line. The pound of flesh—nearest
the heart—eh? Not a second's delay—eh?"

A tinge of colour came in the other's pale
cheek. It was all "Greek" to the military
gentlemen, now left miles behind.

The golden-haired girl had a glow in her
cheek, and her eyes were flashing reproach at
Ross. He saw her, and looked back at her
defiantly. "No, no," she said, "you don't mean
all that."

"Don't I," said he. "But I tell you I do.
You, Ada Millwood, are a great authority on
such matters. You, of course, have met lots of
charming bankers, sweet men, who force their
money on you, and take no interest, and fill up
cheques all day long, ha! ha! Poetical fellows,
ha! ha! with poetical brass shovels, ha! ha!"
Suddenly his voice changed. "I have met one
or two of that sort, haven't I? Fellows that will
give you a coward's blow in the dark, and
pretend to get off on that; sweet fellows to
look at, but with whom I shall be even one
of these days." (The military, a whole county
behind, could not understand a word. They
afterwards said to each other, "How jolly
screwed that Ross had got, and so early in the
night, too.")