“Tryphie!” he cried, with his eyes sparkling.
“Yes, Tom, dear,” she said, looking up in his face. “Don’t let aunt marry me to any one.”
“If I do!” he cried, clasping her in his arms, and her pretty little rosebud of a mouth was turned up to his for the kiss that was placed there, just as the drawing-room door opened, and her ladyship sailed in to stand as if petrified.
“Lord Diphoos! Tryphie!” she cried in a deep contralto. “What are you doing?”
“Kissing,” said Tom. “It’s done this way,” and he imprinted half a dozen more kisses upon Tryphie’s frightened little face before she struggled from him, and ran out by another door.
“Have the goodness, sir, to ring that bell,” said her ladyship, laying her hand upon her side, and tottering to an easy-chair. “I cannot talk to you about your conduct now—your wickedness—your riot and debauchery—my mind is too full of what is about to take place; but as you are going away to-day, I must tell you that you can return here no more until Tryphie is married. I will not have her head filled full of wicked nonsense by so unprincipled a young man.”
“Yes, I am a very bad one, mother,” said Tom, quietly; “but don’t make yourself uncomfortable. I am not going away.”
“Not going away?” shrieked her ladyship. “Ah, who is that?” she continued, without turning her head.
“Robbins, my lady.”
“Oh, Robbins, send Justine to me.”