"It's an ill bird that befouls its own nest," said a young fellow present.
Bideabout overheard the remark. "What do you mean by that? Was that aimed at me?" he shouted and started to his feet.
A brawl would have inevitably ensued, but for a timely interruption.
In the door stood a well-dressed, good-looking young man, surveying the assembled company with a smile.
Silence ensued. Bideabout looked round.
Then, with a cry of joy, mingled with pain, Mrs. Verstage started from her feet.
"It is Iver! my Iver!"
In another moment mother and son were locked in each other's arms.
The guests rose and looked questioningly at their host, before they welcomed the intruder.
Simon Verstage remained seated, with his glass in his hand, gazing sternly into it. His face became mottled, red spots appeared on the temples, and on the cheekbones; elsewhere he was pale.