The stormy interview with Wentworth disturbed the usual serenity of Mr. Longworth's temper. He went home earlier than was customary with him that night, and the more he thought over the attack, the more unjustifiable it seemed. He wondered what his nephew had really done, and tried to remember what Wentworth had charged against him. He could not recollect, the angrier portions of the interview having, as it were, blotted the charges from his mind. There remained, however, a very bitter resentment against Wentworth. Mr. Longworth searched his conscience to see if he could be in the least to blame, but he found nothing in the recollections of his dealings with the young men to justify him in feeling at all responsible for the disaster that had overtaken them. He read his favourite evening paper with less than his usual interest, for every now and then the episode in his office would occur to him. Finally he said sharply:
'Edith!'
'Yes, father,' answered his daughter.
'You remember a person named Wentworth, whom you had here the evening William went away?'
'Yes, father.'
'Very well. Never invite him to this house again.'
'What has he been doing?' asked the young woman in rather a tremulous voice.
'I desire you also never to ask anyone connected with him—that man Kenyon, for instance,' continued her father, ignoring her question.
'I thought,' she answered, 'that Mr. Kenyon was not in this country at present.'
'He is not, but he will be back again, I suppose. At any rate, I wish to have nothing more to do with those people. You understand that?'