“I say well married, Claire,” said her father sternly, “and though we have still that trouble ever facing us, of a member of our family debauched by drunkenness, and sunk down to the degradation of a common soldier—”
“Oh! I say, father, leave poor old Fred alone,” cried Morton. “He isn’t a bad fellow; only unlucky.”
“Be silent, sir, and do not mention his name again in my presence. And Claire, once for all, I forbid his coming to this house.”
“He only came to the back door,” grumbled Morton.
“A son who is so degraded that he cannot come to the front door, and must lower himself to the position of one of our servants, is no companion for my children. I forbid all further communication with him.”
“Oh, papa!” cried Claire, with the tears in her eyes.
“Silence! Morton, my son, I have hopes that by means of my interest a certain person will give you a commission in the Light Dragoons, and—For what we have received may the Lord make us truly thankful.”
“Amen,” said Morton. “Claire, I want some more bread and butter.”
“Claire,” said the Master of the Ceremonies, rising from the table as a faint tinkle was heard, “there is the Countess’s bell.”
He drew the girl aside and laid a thin white finger upon her shoulder.