“Don’t be hard on a fellow, aunt. You know I can’t help coming. Where’s Jessie?”
“Out,” said Mrs Shingle, sharply.
“She always is out when I come,” drawled the young man, tapping his teeth with his cane. “I believe she is upstairs now.”
“Then you’d better go up and see,” exclaimed Mrs Shingle. “Look here, Fred, I’m sure your father don’t approve of your coming here.”
“I can’t help what the governor likes,” was the reply.
“I’m not going to ask him where I’m to go. Is Jessie out?”
“I told you she was, sir.”
“Don’t be so jolly cross, aunt. It’s all right, you know. The old man will kick a bit, but he’ll soon come round. Don’t you be rusty about it. You ought to be pleased, you know; because she ain’t likely to have a chance to do half so well. I shall go and meet her.”
As he spoke, the young man—to wit, Frederick Fraser, step-son of Maximilian Shingle, Esq, of Oblong Square, Pentonville—slowly descended from the table, glanced at himself in the glass, and made for the door.
“She’s gone down the Goswell Road, I know,” said the young man, turning to show his teeth in a grin.