'How much more deeply you would have been interested if Mr. Wendover had been here to expatiate upon his family tree,' said Urania.
'That might have made it still more interesting,' admitted Ida, with a frankness which took the sting out of Miss Rylance's remark.
The young Wendovers had shown Ida everything. They had opened cabinets, peered into secret drawers, sniffed at the stale pot-pourri in old crackle vases; they had dragged their willing victim through all the long slippery passages, by all the mysterious stairs and by-ways; they had obliged her to look at the interior of ghostly closets, where the ladies of old had stored their house linen or hung their mantuas and farthingales; they had made her look out of numerous windows to admire the prospect; they had introduced her to the state bedroom in which the heads of the Wendover race made a point of being born; they made her peep shuddering into the death-chamber where the family were laid in their last slumber. The time thus pleasantly occupied slipped away unawares; and the chapel clock was striking one as they all went trooping down the broad oak staircase for about the fifteenth time.
A gentleman was entering the hall as they came down. They could only see the top of his hat.
'It's father,' cried Eva.
'You little idiot; did you ever see my father in a stove-pipe hat on a week-day?' cried Reg, with infinite scorn.
'Then it's Brian.'
'Brian is in Norway.'
The gentleman looked up and greeted them all with a comprehensive smile.
It was Dr. Rylance.
'So glad I have found you, young people,' he said blandly.