"My father has shut the door against better men than they are," said the youth carelessly; "witness my own uncles Henry and George."
The lip of the lady quivered, the indignant colour rose even to her temples; she attempted to speak, but her voice failed her, and she turned aside to hide her emotion.
"Well, mother, I did not mean to vex you," said Philip, who was rather weak in purpose than hardened in evil; "it was a shame to bring Jones and Wildrake here, but—but you see I couldn't help it." And he played uneasily with his gold-headed riding-whip, while his eye avoided meeting that of his mother.
"They have acquired some strange influence, some mysterious hold over you," answered the lady. "It cannot be," she added anxiously, "that you have broken your promise,—that they have drawn you again to the gaming-table,—that you are involved in debt to these men?"
Philip whistled an air and sauntered up to the window.
Lady Grange pressed her hand over her eyes, and a sigh, a very heavy sigh, burst from her bosom. Philip heard, and turned impatiently round.
"There's no use in making the worst of matters," said he; "what's done can't be helped; and my debts, such as they are, won't ruin a rich man like my father."
"It is not that which I fear," said the mother faintly, with a terrible consciousness that her son,—her hope, her pride, the delight of her heart,—had entered on a course which, if persevered in, must end in his ruin both of body and soul. "I tremble at the thought of the misery which you are bringing on yourself. These men are making you their victim: they are blinding your eyes; they are throwing a net around you, and you have not the resolution to break from the snare."
"They are very pleasant, jovial fellows!" cried Philip, trying to hide under an appearance of careless gaiety the real annoyance which he felt at the words of his mother.
"I've asked them to dine here to-day and—"