'Much better, thank you,' returned Geraldine, with one of her keen glances; and then she somewhat elaborately changed the subject. Audrey was not subjected to any cross-examination; indeed, there was something significant in Mrs. Harcourt's entire dearth of curiosity; but all the time she was saying to herself: 'Audrey has been crying; her eyes are quite swollen, and yet she looks cheerful. What can it mean? What has she been doing? She has hardly had time to smooth her hair, it looks so rough. I wonder if Percival notices anything! I am sure father does, for he keeps looking at her,' and so on.
It was Mr. Harcourt who was Audrey's bête noir that evening. He was in one of his argumentative moods, and could not be made to understand that his sister-in-law would have preferred silence. He was perpetually urging her to single combat, touching her up on some supposed tender point in the hope of getting a rally. 'I suppose Audrey, who goes in for women's rights so warmly, will differ from me if I say so and so?' or 'We must ask Audrey what she thinks of that, my dear; she is a great stickler for feminine prerogative;' and then he would point his chin, and a sort of sarcastic light would come into his eyes. It was positive enjoyment to him when Audrey rose to the bait and floundered hopelessly into an argument. But, on the whole, she acquitted herself ill. 'You are too clever for me to-night, Percival,' she said a little wearily, as he stood talking to her with his coffee cup in his hand; 'I cannot think what makes men so fond of debating and argument. If they can only persuade a person that black is white, they go home and sleep quite happily.'
'It is such a triumph to make people see with one's own eyes,' he returned, as though accepting a compliment. 'Have you ever read the Republic of Plato? No! I should recommend it for your perusal: it is an acknowledged masterpiece; the reasoning is superb, and it is rich in illustrations. The want of women is that, with all their intelligence, they are so illogical. Now, if women only had the education of men——'
'Harcourt, I think Geraldine is tired, and would like you to take her home,' observed Dr. Ross, interrupting the stream of eloquence; and Mr. Harcourt, without finishing his sentence, went at once in search of his wife. Women might be illogical, but they were to be considered, for all that. With all his satire and love of argument, Mr. Harcourt valued his wife's comfort before his own. 'I am quite ready, dear,' he said, as she looked up at him with a deprecating smile; 'and I know your mother will excuse us.'
Dr. Ross had walked with his daughter to the gate. Young Mrs. Harcourt was a woman who always exacted these little attentions from the menkind around her; without demanding them, she took them naturally as her right and prerogative. It would have seemed strange to her if her father had not offered her his arm. 'Good-bye, father dear,' she said, giving him her firm cool cheek to kiss; 'Percy and I have had such a nice evening.'
Dr. Ross walked back to the house; then he went to his study and lighted his reading-lamp. There was a certain interesting debate in the Times which he wished much to read—a Ministerial crisis was at hand, and Dr. Ross, who was Conservative to the backbone, was aware that his party was menaced. He had just taken the paper in his hand when Audrey came into the room. 'Good-night, my dear,' he said, without looking up; but Audrey did not take the hint.
'Daddy, I want to speak to you,' she said very quietly; 'will you please put that paper down for a moment?' And then she added, 'I want to speak to you very particularly.'
Dr. Ross heaved a sigh and lowered his paper somewhat reluctantly. 'Would not another time have done as well?' he grumbled good-humouredly; 'Harcourt has taken up all the evening. That is the worst of having an elderly son-in-law; one is bound to be civil to him; one could not tell him to hold his tongue, for example.'
'I think Percival would resent such a hint,' returned Audrey rather absently. She had drawn a low chair close to her father's knee, so that she could touch him, and now she looked up in his face a little pleadingly.
'Well, what is it, child?' he went on, still fingering his paper; 'I suppose you want help for some protégée or other—moderation in all things. I warn you that I have not got Fortunatus's purse.'