Outside a child's voice was raised in a dismal howl. Tristram gently extricated himself. "I must go," he repeated. At the some moment there was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Squire appeared, in some agitation. The little hall seemed entirely blocked up with people, a young cleric among them. Tristram closed the door behind him.
"What a place to live in! What a life—never a moment's peace!" exclaimed the young Frenchman.
"Tristram is wanted by everybody all day long," said Dormer.
"I'm not surprised," returned Maurice; "but I wanted him to-night."
Dormer shook his head as if it were hopeless. Then he said:
"Have I congratulated you, Maurice, as I should do? I don't think I have. I am most sincerely glad about Mademoiselle de Béthisy. Your mother has wished for it so long—and I have hoped for it, too. Then there is your rapid promotion. I suppose, my dear boy, that one can hardly congratulate you enough!"
He smiled, a very sweet and human smile that made him look suddenly years younger, and held out his hand, just as the door opened and Tristram reappeared, glancing down at someone behind him.
"Come in, Jack! You shall have some hot coffee, and be quick about it, and then I will come with you."
A thin, ragged boy of about twelve, all eyes, shyly followed him. In Tristram's arms, wrapped round with an old red shawl, was a rosy little girl, not much more than a baby, from whose cheeks Tristram was removing, presumably with his own handkerchief, a few remaining tears.
"Pour out some coffee, Maurice, will you?" he said. "No, Mary had better have milk only."