“Miss Portlock is a most estimable young lady, for whom I entertain the highest respect, Mrs Portlock,” said the Rector, warmly; “and it was on her behalf, knowing as I do how foolish Cyril can be, that I came to speak to you this morning.”
“I don’t know anything about his foolishness, Mr Mallow,” said the lady, who was growing irate; “but I’ve got to say this, that he comes here just as if he means something, and if he does not mean anything he had better stop away, and not behave like his brother Frank.”
“Exactly so, my dear madam,” cried the Rector, eagerly. “I am going to talk seriously to him.”
This did not seem to meet the lady’s ideas, and she looked hot and annoyed, beginning to stir the fire with a good deal of noise, and setting the poker down more loudly.
“I should be deeply grieved, I am sure, Mrs Portlock,” began the Rector; “it is far from my wish to—really, my dear madam, this is a very unpleasant interview.”
The lady said nothing; but she was so evidently of the same opinion that the Rector was glad to rise and offer his hand in token of farewell.
She shook hands, and the visitor left, to hurry home with his black stick hanging behind, and his soul hot within him as he mentally accused Cyril by his folly of getting him into the unpleasant predicament from which he had so lately escaped.