'To-night?' said Bertie; and the simple tone of the question left the doctor without any adequately dignified method of reply.
'Papa does not quite mean to-night,' said Charlotte, 'at least I suppose not.'
'To-morrow perhaps,' suggested Bertie.
'Yes sir, to-morrow,' said the doctor. 'You shall leave this to-morrow.'
'Very well, sir. Will the 4.30 P.M. train be soon enough?' said Bertie, as he asked, put the finishing touch to Miss Thorne's high-heeled boots.
'You may go how and when and where you please, so that you leave my house to-morrow. You have disgraced me, sir; you have disgraced yourself, and me, and your sisters.'
'I am glad at least sir, that I have not disgraced my mother,' said
Bertie.
Charlotte could hardly keep her countenance; but the doctor's brow grew still blacker than ever. Bertie was executing his chef d'ouvre in the delineation of Mrs Proudie's nose and mouth.
'You are a heartless reprobate, sir; a heartless, thankless, good-for-nothing reprobate. I have done with you. You are my son—that I cannot help; but you shall have no more part or parcel in me as my child, nor I in you as your father.'
'Oh, papa, papa! You must not, shall not say so,' said Charlotte.