We have seen how Mr Traffick was finally turned out of his father-in-law’s house — or, rather, not quite finally when we last saw him, as he continued to sleep at Queen’s Gate for two or three nights after that, until he had found shelter for his head. This he did without encountering Sir Thomas, Sir Thomas pretending the while to believe that he was gone; and then in very truth his last pair of boots was removed. But his wife remained, awaiting the great occurrence with all the paternal comforts around her, Mr Traffick having been quite right in surmising that the father would not expose his daughter in her delicate condition to the inclemencies of the weather.

But this no more than natural attention on the part of the father and grandfather to the needs of his own daughter and grandchild did not in the least mitigate in the bosom of the Member of Parliament the wrath which he felt at his own expulsion. It was not, as he said to himself, the fact that he was expelled, but the coarseness of the language used. “The truth is,” he said to a friend in the House, “that, though it was arranged that I should remain there till after my wife’s confinement, I could not bear his language.” It will probably be acknowledged that the language was of a nature not to be borne.

When, therefore, Captain Batsby went down to the House on the day of Tom’s departure to see his counsellor he found Mr Traffick full rather of anger than of counsel. “Oh, yes,” said the Member, walking with the Captain up and down some of the lobbies, “I spoke to him, and told him my mind very freely. When I say I’ll do a thing, I always do it. And as for Tringle, nobody knows him better than I. It does not do to be afraid of him. There is a little bit of the cur about him.”

“What did he say?”

“He didn’t like it. The truth is —. You know I don’t mind speaking to you openly.”

“Oh, no,” said Batsby.

“He thinks he ought to do as well with the second girl as he has done with the first.” Captain Batsby at this opened his eyes, but he said nothing. Having a good income of his own, he thought much of it. Not being the younger son of a lord, and not being a Member of Parliament, he thought less of the advantages of those high privileges. It did not suit him, however, to argue the question at the present moment. “He is proud of his connection with our family, and looks perhaps even more than he ought to do to a seat in the House.”

“I could get in myself if I cared for it,” said Batsby.

“Very likely. It is more difficult than ever to find a seat just now. A family connection of course does help one. I had to trust to that a good deal before I was known myself.”

“But what did Sir Thomas say?”

“He made himself uncommonly disagreeable — I can tell you that. He couldn’t very well abuse me, but he wasn’t very particular in what he said about you. Of course he was cut up about the elopement. We all felt it. Augusta was very much hurt. In her precarious state it was so likely to do a mischief.”

“It can’t be undone now.”

“No — it can’t be undone. But it makes one feel that you can’t make a demand for money as though you set about it in the other way. When I made up my mind to marry I stated what I thought I had a right to demand, and I got it. He knew very well that I shouldn’t take a shilling less. It does make a difference when he knows very well that you’ve got to marry the girl whether with or without money.”

“I haven’t got to marry the girl at all.”

“Haven’t you? I rather think you have, old fellow. It is generally considered that when a gentleman has gone off with a girl he means to marry her.”

“Not if the father comes after her and brings her back.”

“And when he has gone afterwards to the family house and proposed himself again in the mother’s presence.” In all this Mr Traffick had received an unfair advantage from the communications which were made to him by his wife. “Of course you must marry her. Sir Thomas knows that, and, knowing it, why should he be flush with his money? I never allowed myself to say a single word they could use against me till the ready-money-down had been all settled.”

“What was it he did say?” Batsby was thoroughly sick of hearing his counsellor tell so many things as to his own prudence and his own success, and asked the question in an angry tone.

“He said that he would not consider the question of money at all till the marriage had been solemnised. Of course he stands on his right. Why shouldn’t he? But, rough as he is, he isn’t stingy. Give him his due. He isn’t stingy. The money’s there all right; and the girl is his own child. You’ll have to wait his time — that’s all.”

“And have nothing to begin with?”

“That’ll be about it, I think. But what does it matter, Batsby? You are always talking about your income.”

“No, I ain’t; not half so much as you do of your seat in Parliament — which everybody says you are likely to lose at the next election.” Then, of course, there was a quarrel. Mr Traffick took his offended dignity back to the House — almost doubting whether it might not be his duty to bring Captain Batsby to the bar for contempt of privilege; and the Captain took himself off in thorough disgust.

Nevertheless there was the fact that he had engaged himself to the young lady a second time. He had run away with her with the object of marrying her, and had then, according to his own theory in such matters — been relieved from his responsibility by the appearance of the father and the re-abduction of the young lady. As the young lady had been taken away from him it was to be supposed that the intended marriage was negatived by a proper authority. When starting for Brussels he was a free man; and had he been wise he would have remained there, or at some equally safe distance from the lady’s charms. Then, from a distance, he might have made his demand for money, and the elopement would have operated in his favour rather than otherwise. But he had come back, and had foolishly allowed himself to be persuaded to show himself at Queen’s Gate. He had obeyed Traffick’s advice, and now Traffick had simply thrown him over and quarrelled with him. He had too promised, in the presence both of the mother and the married sister, that he would marry the young lady without any regard to money. He felt it all and was very angry with himself, consoling himself as best he might with the reflection that Sir Thomas’s money was certainly safe, and that Sir Thomas himself was a liberal man. In his present condition it would be well for him, he thought, to remain inactive and see what circumstances would do for him.

But circumstances very quickly became active. On his return to his lodgings, after leaving Mr Traffick, he found a note from Queen’s Gate. “Dearest Ben — Mamma wants you to come and lunch tomorrow. Papa has taken poor Tom down to Liverpool, and won’t be back till dinner-time. — G.” He did not do as he was bid, alleging some engagement of business. But the persecution was continued in such a manner as to show him that all opposition on his part would be hopeless unless he were to proceed on some tour as prolonged as that of his future brother-in-law. “Come and walk at three o’clock in Kensington Gardens tomorrow.” This was written on the Saturday after his note had been received. What use would there be in continuing a vain fight? He was in their hands, and the more gracefully he yielded the more probable it would be that the father would evince his generosity at an early date. He therefore met his lady-love on the steps of the Albert Memorial, whither she had managed to take herself all alone from the door of the family mansion.

“Ben,” she said, as she greeted him, why did you not come for me to the house?”

“I thought you would like it best.”

“Why should I like it best? Of course mamma knows all about it. Augusta would have come with me just to see me here, only that she cannot walk out just at present.” Then he said something to her about the Monument, expressed his admiration of the Prince’s back, abused the east wind, remarked that the buds were coming on some of the trees, and suggested that the broad road along by the Round Pond would be drier than the little paths. It was not interesting, as Gertrude felt, but she had not expected him to be interesting. The interest she knew must be contributed by herself. “Ben,” she said, “I was so happy to hear what you said to mamma the other day.”

“What did I say?”

“Why, of course, that, as papa has given his consent, our engagement is to go on just as if — ”

“Just as if what?”

“As if we had found the clergyman at Ostend.”

“If we had done that we should have been married now,” suggested Batsby.

“Exactly. And it’s almost as good as being married — isn’t it?

“I suppose it comes to the same thing.”

“Hadn’t you better go to papa again and have it all finished?”

“He makes himself so very unpleasant.”

“That’s only because he wants to punish us for running away. I suppose it was wrong. I shall never be sorry, because it made me know how very, very much you loved me. Didn’t it make you feel how very, very dearly I loved you — to trust myself all alone with you in that way?”

“Oh, yes; of course.”

“And papa can’t bite you, you know. You go to him, and tell him that you hope to be received in the house as my — my future husband, you know.”

“Shall I say nothing else?”

“You mean about the day?”

“I was meaning about money.”

“I don’t thin............