“And your father—­well, I know there was nothing there,” Mr. Bullsom remarked, thoughtfully.

“You cabled out the money to bring me home,” Mary reminded him.

“Well, well!” Mr. Bullsom declared.  “You must go and see these chaps.  There’s no harm in that, at any rate.  We must all have that trip to London.  I expect Brooks will be wanting to go and see Henslow.  We’ll have to give that chap what for, I know.”

Selina sailed into the room in a salmon-coloured wrapper, which should long ago have been relegated to the bath-room.  She pecked her father on the cheek and nodded to Mary.

“Don’t you see Mr. Brooks, dear?” her father remarked, with a twinkle in his eye and something very much like a wink to Mary.

Selina screamed, and looked fearfully around the room.

“What do you mean, papa?” she exclaimed.  “There is no one here.”

“Serve you right if there had been,” Mr. Bullsom declared, gruffly.  “A pretty state to come down in the morning at past nine o’clock.”

Selina tossed her head.

“I am going to dress directly after breakfast,” she remarked.

“Then if you’ll allow me to say so,” her father declared, “before breakfast is the time to dress, and not afterwards.  You’re always the same, Selina, underdressed when you think there’s no one around to see you, and overdressed when there is.”

Selina poured herself out some coffee and yawned.

“La, papa, what do you know about it?” she exclaimed.

“What my eyes tell me,” Mr. Bullsom declared, sternly.  “You’ve no allowance to keep to.  You’ve leave to spend what you want, and you’re never fit to be seen.  There’s Mary there taking thirty pounds a year from me, and won’t have a penny more, though she’s heartily welcome to it, and she looks a lady at any moment of the day.”

Selina drew herself up, and her eyes narrowed a little.

“You’re talking about what, you don’t understand, pa,” she answered with dignity.  “If you prefer Mary’s style of dress”—­she glanced with silent disparagement at her cousin’s grey skirt and plain white blouse—­“well, it’s a matter of taste, isn’t it?

“Taste!” Mr. Bullsom replied, contemptuously.  “Taste!  What sort of taste do you call that beastly rug on your shoulders, eh?  Or your hair rolled round and just a pin stuck through it?  Looks as though it hadn’t been brushed for a week.  Faugh!  When your mother and I lived on two pounds a week she never insulted me by coming down to breakfast in such a thing.”

Selina eyed her father in angry astonishment.

“Thing indeed!” she repeated.  “This wrapper cost me four guineas, and came from Paris.  That shows how much you know about it.”

“From Paris, did it?” Mr. Bullsom retorted, fiercely.  “Then up-stairs you go and take it off.  You girls have had your own way too much, and I’m about tired of it.”

“I shall change it—­after breakfast,” Selina said, doubtfully.