When Lucilla came in, it was several minutes before Miss Wychwood was able to break the news of her uncle’s arrival to her, so anxious was she to recount all the details of the day’s expedition. But she did at last pause for breath, and the change that came over her countenance when she heard the dread tidings was almost ludicrous. The sparkle was quenched instantly in her eyes, the smile vanished from her lips, she turned pale, and wrung her hands together. “He has come to drag me away! Oh, no, no, no!”

“Don’t be such a goose!” said Miss Wychwood, laughing at her. “I don’t think he has any such intention, though I fancy that may well have been his original purpose. But until I told him just what the case was he had no idea that the Iverleys and Mrs Amber were trying to bring about a match between you and Ninian. You need not be afraid that he will help them to promote that precious scheme, for he most certainly will not. He was excessively vexed—partly with them, and partly with you, for not having written to tell him of it. So when you meet him don’t put him out of temper by looking black at him, and getting on your high ropes! He seems to me to be as mifty as he is uncivil, and no good purpose can be served by getting into a quarrel with him, you know.”

“I don’t want to meet him!” Lucilla declared, tears starting into her eyes.

“Now you are being foolish beyond permission, my dear! Of course you must see him! I am taking you to dine with him at the York House this evening, so that we may, all three of us, discuss what’s to be done with you! Oh, don’t look so dismayed, you ridiculous puss! I promise I won’t let him bully you!”

In spite of this assurance it was a considerable time before Lucilla could be persuaded to consent to the scheme, and although she did in the end consent it was easy to see, when she took her place beside Miss Wychwood in the carriage, that she was far from being reconciled to it. Her charming little face was downcast, her eyes were full of apprehension, and it was not difficult to guess that she stood in great awe of her formidable uncle.

He received them in a private parlour, very correctly attired in the blue coat, white waistcoat, black pantaloons, and striped silk stockings which constituted the evening-dress worn by all the Smarts at private parties. Miss Wychwood noted, with slightly reluctant approval, that while he exhibited none of the exaggerated quirks of fashion which characterized the dandy-set, his coat was very well cut, his neckcloth tied with nicety, his shirt-points decently starched, and the bosom of his shirt unadorned by a frill—an outmoded fashion still worn by many provincial beaux, and almost invariably by the older generation of Smarts to which he undoubtedly belonged.

He came forward to shake hands with Miss Wychwood, paying no immediate heed to Lucilla, following her into the parlour. “You can’t think how relieved I am to see that you haven’t brought your cousin with you!” he said, by way of greeting. “I have been cursing myself these three hours for not having made it plain to her that I was not including her in my invitation to you! I couldn’t have endured an evening spent in the company of such an unconscionable gabble-monger!”

“Oh, but you did!” she told him. “She took you in the greatest dislike, and can’t be blamed for having done so, or for having uttered some pretty severe strictures on your total want of conduct. You must own, if there is any truth in you, that you were shockingly uncivil to her!”

“I can’t tolerate chattering bores,” he said. “If she took me in such dislike, I’m amazed that she permitted you to come here without her chaperonage.”

“She would certainly have stopped me if she could have done it, for she does not think you are a proper person for me to know!”

“Good God! Does she suspect me of trying to seduce you? She may be easy on that head: I never seduce ladies of quality!” He turned from her as he spoke, and put up his glass to cast a critical look over Lucilla. “Well, niece?” he said. “What a troublesome chit you are! But I’m glad to see that your appearance at least is much improved since I last saw you. I thought that you were bidding fair to grow into a Homely Joan, but I was wrong: you are no longer pudding-faced, and you’ve lost your freckles. Accept my felicitations!”

“I was not pudding-faced!”

“Oh, believe me, you were! You hadn’t lost your puppy-fat.”

Her bosom heaved with indignation, but Miss Wychwood intervened, recommending her not to rise to that, or any other fly of her uncle’s casting. She added severely: “And as for you, sir, I beg you will refrain from making any more remarks expressly designed to put Lucilla all on end, and to render me acutely uncomfortable!”

“I wouldn’t do that for the world!” he assured her.

“Then don’t be so rag-mannered!” she retorted.

“But I wasn’t!” he protested. “I didn’t say Lucilla is pudding-faced! I said she was,and even complimented her on her improved looks!”

Lucilla was betrayed into a little crow of involuntary laughter, and said with engaging frankness: “Oh, what an odiously complete hand you are, Uncle Oliver! Was I really such an antidote?”

“Oh, no, not an antidote! Merely a chicken that had lost its down and had too few feathers to show that it might grow into a handsome bird!”

“Well!” said Lucilla, much impressed. “I know I’m quite pretty,but no one has ever said I was handsome! Do you think I am, sir, or—or are you roasting me?”

“No, I don’t think you handsome, but you’ve no need to look so downcast! Believe me, only females admire handsome women: men infinitely prefer pretty ones!”

She was left to digest this, while he engaged Miss Wychwood in conversation, but suddenly interrupted this exchange of elegant civilities to ask him if he thought Miss Wychwood handsome, or pretty.

Annis, torn between amusement and embarrassment, directed an admonitory frown at her, but Mr Carleton replied without hesitation: “Neither.”

“Well, I think,” said Lucilla, bristling in defence of her patroness, “that she is beautiful!”

“Yes, so do I,” he answered.

“I am very much obliged to you both,” said Annis, recovering from the shock, “and I shall be even more obliged to you if you will stop putting me to the blush! I haven’t come to listen to empty compliments, but to discuss with you, sir, how best to provide for Lucilla until her come-out!”

“All in good time,” he said. “We will dine first.” He added, with that glint in his eyes which she found strangely disquieting: “Your advanced years, ma’am, have impaired your memory! I told you, not so many hours ago, that I never try to flummery people! My years are considerably more advanced than yours, but I should warn you that my memory is still quite undamaged by senility!”

“Odious, odious creature!” she said softly, but allowed him to hand her to the table, where two waiters had just finished setting out the first course of a well-chosen dinner.

Lucilla was inclined to pout, but was subdued by a glance from Miss Wychwood’s fine eyes, and meekly took her place at her guardian’s left hand. She was young enough to regard the food set before her as a matter of indifference, but she had a schoolgirl’s hearty appetite, and did full justice to the first course, partaking of every dish offered her, and allowing her elders to converse without interruption. The edge of her hunger having been taken off by the time the second course was brought in she refused the green goose, and the pigeons, but made great inroads on an orange soufflé, a Celerata cream, and a basket of pastry. Nibbling a ratafia biscuit, she stole a glance at her uncle’s profile. He was smiling at something Miss Wychwood had said to him, so she ventured to ask him the question uppermost in her mind. “Uncle Oliver!” she said imperatively.

He turned his head. “Do rid yourself of this detestable habit you’ve fallen into of addressing me as Uncle Oliver! I find it quite repellent.”

She opened her eyes at him. “But you are my uncle!” she pointed out.

“Yes, but I don’t wish to be reminded of it.”

“Such a dreadfully ageing title, isn’t it?” said Miss Wychwood, with spurious sympathy.

“Exactly so!” he replied. “Almost worse than aunt!”

She shook her head sadly. “Indeed yes! Though it was being called aunt that drove me from my home.”

“Well, what am I to call you?” demanded Lucilla.

“Anything else you like,” he responded, in a voice devoid of interest.

“Now, that very generous permission opens a wide field to you, my dear,” said Miss Wychwood. “It wouldn’t do for you to call him Bangster,for that would be too impolite, but I see nothing amiss with you calling him Captain Hackum,which has the same meaning, but wrapped up in clean linen!”

Mr Carleton grinned, and kindly explained to his bewildered niece that these terms signified a bully. “They are cant terms,” he further explained, “and far too vulgar for you to use! Anyone hearing them on your lips would write you down as a brass-faced hussy, without conduct or delicacy.”

“Devil!” said Miss Wychwood, with feeling.

“Oh, you’re quizzing me!” Lucilla exclaimed, slightly offended. “Both of you! I wish you will not! I am not a brass-faced hussy, though I daresay people would think me one if I called you merely Oliver! I am sure it must be most improper!”

“It would not only be improper but it would bring down instant retribution on your head!” he told her. “I have no objection to your addressing me as Oliver, but Merely Oliver I’m damned if I’ll tolerate!”