“I’ve given you my views,” replied the lady.
“Yes, but you like to do everything yourself, and you always say I’m wrong whatever I say or do,” said the old gentleman, sonorously, flushing a little, and prodding the point of his stick on the floor.
“See the young man and dismiss him,” said his wife, peremptorily.
“Well, that’s easily done, of course. But what has he done? there ought to be a rea-son.”
“The reason is that I’m tired of disguises. We can’t go on in that absurd manner. It never was known at Kincton, and I⸺”
Suddenly Mrs. Kincton Knox paused in her sentence, and with a great rustling hurried to the study window, where she began to knock with a vehemence which alarmed her husband for the safety of his panes.
The object of the summons was Miss Clara in that exquisitely becoming black velvet cloak and little bonnet which was so nearly irresistible, all grace and radiance, and smiling—upon whom? Why, upon that odious tutor, to whom she was pointing out some of those flowers which she claimed to have planted and tended with her own fingers.
Her mother beckoned fiercely.
“Assist me, if you please, Mr. Kincton Knox; open this horrid window, no one else can.”
So it was opened, and she called rather huskily to Clara to come in.