“No; let the poor girl rest. When you can find her a decent home, if she wishes it, she can come.”
The little wicket was closed with a sharp snap, and father and son gazed at each other in the gloomy room.
“Come back home, Dick,” said Sir Humphrey feebly. “And take warning, my boy: be a bachelor. Ladies in every shape and form are a great mistake.”
Dick Millet thought of the glowing charms of Clotilde and Marie Dymcox, but he said nothing, only hinted to his father that he ought to give Vidler a sovereign; and this done, they went back into the cab.
Half an hour later they were back in the room where Frank Morrison lay talking wildly in a loud, husky voice.
“Oh, well, so much the better,” said the doctor, when he heard all. “Capital calming place for your sister at your uncle’s. And as for Gertrude—bless her sweet face!—your uncle must be right. Bet a guinea he knew beforehand. I wish her and John Huish joy, he’ll never make her leave her home, and drink himself into such a state as this.”
“I hope not,” thought Dick; but just then some of the ugly rumours he had heard crossed his mind, and he had his doubts.
“Precious hard on a fellow,” he said to himself, “two sisters going off like that! I wonder what Glen and the other fellows will say. Suppose fate forced me to do something of the same kind!”