"Let go my hand, sir—let me go home—I don't want to hear any more!"
"Very well," he answered; and was silent the rest of the way home—leaving her without a word in the shop, and passing through that side door reserved for the Hinchfords for the last thirteen years. Harriet, trembling and excited, almost stumbled into the back parlour, and began to sob forth a part of the adventures of that evening. Sidney, like the ghost of himself, stalked into the first-floor front, where his father was keeping a late tea for him.
The anxious eyes of the father glanced from under the bushy white brows; he was a student of human nature, so far as his son was concerned at least.
"Anything wrong, Sid?"
"N—no," was the hesitative answer.
"You look troubled."
"I'm tired—dead beat."
"Let us get on with the tea, then," he said assuming a cheery voice; "here's the Times, Sid."
"I have read it," was the hollow answer.
"Oh! I haven't—any news?"