“And I am not sure,” added Mr. Prohack, still impressively.  “And I am not sure that the ingenuous and excellent Oswald Morfey is not heading straight in the same direction.”  And he gazed at his adored daughter, who exhibited a faint flush, and then laughed lightly.  “Yes,” said Mr. Prohack, “you are very smart, my girl.  If you had shown violence you would have made a sad mistake.  That you should laugh with such a brilliant imitation of naturalness gives me hopes of you.  Let us seek Carthew and the car.  Mr. Bishop’s luncheon, though I admit it was exceedingly painful, has, I trust, not been without its useful lessons to us, and I do not regret it.  For myself I admit it has taught me that even the finest and most agreeable women, such as those with whom I have been careful to sourround myself in my domestic existence, are monsters of cruelty.  Not that I care.”

“I’ve arranged with mamma that you shall come to dinner to-night,” said Sissie.  “No formality, please.”

“Mayn’t your mother wear her pearls?” asked Mr. Prohack.

“I hope you noticed, Arthur,” said Eve with triumphant satisfaction, “how your Miss Fancy was careful to keep off the subject of jewels.”

“Mother’s pearls,” said Sissie primly, “are mother’s affair.”

Mr. Prohack did not feel at all happy.

“And yet,” he asked himself.  “What have I done?  I am perfectly innocent.”

IV

“I never in all my life,” said Sissie, “saw you eat so much, dad.  And I think it’s a great compliment to my cooking.  In fact I’m bursting with modest pride.”

“Well,” replied Mr. Prohack, who had undoubtedly eaten rather too much, “take it how you like.  I do believe I could do with a bit more of this stuff that imitates an omelette but obviously isn’t one.”

“Oh!  But there isn’t any more!” said Sissie, somewhat dashed.

“No more!  Good heavens!  Then have you got some cheese, or anything of that sort?”

“No.  I don’t keep cheese in the place.  You see, the smell of it in these little flats—­”

“Any bread?  Anything at all?”

“I’m afraid we’ve finished up pretty nearly all there was, except Ozzie’s egg for breakfast to-morrow morning.”

“This is serious,” observed Mr. Prohack, tapping enquiringly the superficies of his digestive apparatus.

“Arthur!” cried Eve.  “Why are you such a tease to-night?  You’re only trying to make the child feel awkward.  You know you’ve had quite enough.  And I’m sure it was all very cleverly cooked—­considering.  You’ll be ill in the middle of the night if you keep on, and then I shall have to get up and look after you, as usual.”  Eve had the air of defending her daughter, but something, some reserve in her voice, showed that she was defending, not her daughter, but merely and generally the whole race of house-wives against the whole race of consuming and hypercritical males; she was even defending the Eve who had provided much-criticised meals in the distant past.  Such was her skill that she could do this while implying, so subtly yet so effectively, that Sissie, the wicked, shameless, mamma-scorning bride, was by no means forgiven in the secret heart of the mother.