Doris is just in time to catch up Vic as she bounds on to the sofa with a view to settling herself for a comfortable nap on the end of Mrs. Merivale's dress. Being put on the floor and told to lie down, she does so under protest, and with a "whoofa" of indignation. But presently discrying an attraction in the shape of a misguided fly, that with reckless confidence has emerged from some safe nook and is flying feebly towards one of the lamps, she starts up, and making snap after snap, careers madly after it round the room. Suddenly catching sight of her own stumpy tail, however, which in the excitement of the hunt bids fair to wag its owner's body off its legs, she pulls up suddenly, then whirls round and round, teetotum fashion, in pursuit of the offending object. Mrs. Merivale is in a state of frenzy.
"Doris!" she exclaims angrily, "do catch the dog and put it out of the room. I call it downright cruel of you to encourage it as you do. But there, I must say you are all alike in that respect; no one ever considers me! Even in this tiresome upset (and I am sure I don't clearly understand what it is or why it is) your father's one thought seems to be 'the children,' and what will be done about this, that, and the other concerning them."
"O mother! I'm sure you do father an injustice in saying that!" cries Doris indignantly. "You must know that you are always his first thought in everything."
"Well, I don't know. And what," continues Mrs. Merivale, giving another little impatient pull to the sofa cushion—"what am I to understand when your father talks of ruin? I suppose we shall have to give up one of the carriages, perhaps; though which I don't know. It will be too dreadful to think of stifling in a brougham during the day, and yet if we kept the victoria, how in the world could I go out at night?"
A brief pause, in which Doris reads for about the twentieth time the advertisement which is staring her in the face from the back of a periodical which lies uncut upon the table.
Then Mrs. Merivale sighs rather than says, "I suppose too we shall have to do with a servant or two less. I do really think"—a bright idea suddenly striking her—"that you could very well do without a maid in the school-room now; and perhaps we could manage with only one housemaid, though I should dread proposing such a thing to Louisa, and of course I could not think of letting her go. It is equally impossible too that I could spare Lane, after having her with me such a number of years. I don't really see what else I can do. We need not give so many dinner-parties, perhaps; a light supper costs less than a dinner, and one need not be so particular about the wines. You, Doris, will have to come out at one of the county balls, instead of being presented in London; and Honor will have to take painting lessons from some cheaper master than Signor Visetti. I daresay, after all, we would only have been paying for his name." Another short pause, and then "I suppose if things are really so serious as your father makes them out to be, Dick, poor boy, will have to make up his mind to give up Oxford in the future. Oh, thank goodness, here is Miss Denison! Now, Doris, you can go; and do hurry Lane with that cup of tea she is getting—and, Doris," as the girl, only too glad to escape, nears the door, "pray shut that dog up; and if it cannot be quiet in the house, let it go to the stables. It is what most other dogs have to do."
CHAPTER VIII.
GONE!
In the meantime a very different conversation is being carried on in the study, whither Honor has gone to her father. Although Mr. Merivale has had some difficulty in making his wife understand the extent of the trouble which has come upon them, he finds it quite another matter with his daughter. In a very few minutes Honor's clear head has completely taken in the situation; and it is an unspeakable relief to Mr. Merivale to feel that there is one in the family at all events upon whose aid he can rely in that hard and difficult task which now lies before him, that of beginning life over again. The girl's loving sympathy also goes far towards softening the blow which has fallen with such cruel force, and though still haggard and wan-looking it is with a little smile that he at length looks up and says, "So we must all make the best of it, Honor; and after a time, I daresay, we shall manage very well. If only your mother understood a little better; but you see, dear, she has always from her birth upwards lived in affluence and luxury, and it will come very hard upon her, poor thing, to have to live such an utterly different kind of life."
Honor, who with her chin resting upon her hand is staring abstractedly into the fire, merely nods acquiescence to her father's remarks, until after a brief silence she looks up.