Clarence looked wistfully and affectionately at his father during the dinner, who returned his glances with tenderness. The abject expression which Mr Raybold had seemed to have worn in the afternoon had now been replaced by an air of placid content and kindliness. Clarence felt greatly relieved, and began to regain hope and confidence.
“Are you going to the club tonight, Philip?” he asked.
“Yes; I’ll look in there about ten o’clock. Shall you be there?”
“Yes; I think so,” replied the capitalist, quietly. “I have a few calls to make first.”
“I suppose you don’t object to me taking the youngsters, to show them about?”
“Well—no. If you consider them old enough, I don’t greatly object.”
There was not much heartiness in Mr Raybold’s tones, and he looked in the direction of his son with a slightly troubled eye, while he rubbed his chin reflectively.
“Oh, I’ll vouch for them, and take care that they do not get into any scrapes also,” answered Mr Martin, confidently.
“Very well; I’ll trust them under your wing. Come into my sanctum and have a cigar first.”
Mr Raybold rose and led the way with a pleasant smile; then, dismissing the servant who had followed them with coffee, he locked the door, and turned round to Philip Martin with a stern face—