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Vernon was now gazing on her in the attitude which he had learnt from plays and poems conveyed to the laity the best conception of artistic fervor. "The head a little more to the right!" he exclaimed. "The hands crossed! A smile, please! Now, sir, how do you like that?" Mr. Walkingshaw ignored the question altogether and addressed his daughter. "If Mr.
Walkingshaw of Walkingshaw and Gilliflower in the hands of a quack doctor! It would sound awful bad awful bad. Little did he dream what people would be saying of that reputable Writer to the Signet three months later. Business happened to be slack that afternoon, and at the early hour of four o'clock Mr. Walkingshaw resumed his overcoat and muffler. As Mr.
I say, what a joke! Oh, Andrew, Andrew, my bonny, bonny boy!" In silence through it all, Andrew gazed darkly down at the late Heriot Walkingshaw. "When you have finished," said Andrew grimly. He looked a nasty customer to tackle now, but the laugher on the sofa merely subsided into a friendly smile. "Shake hands, Andrew," he cried, jumping up.
His age did not matter. That was his business. His son's was to see that, whether Mr. Heriot Walkingshaw professed to be eighty or eighteen, he conducted himself in a manner befitting the head of so respectable a family and firm.
Walkingshaw began by remarking that it was by the merest chance he was present among them to-night. Several morals might be drawn from this little incident. What satisfaction was it to become prosperous and respected if at the same time one became a bugbear to one's children and a bore to one's acquaintances?
Then she made up her mind; her warm heart could not bear to disappoint anybody; and besides, Mr. Heriot Walkingshaw, however odd his conduct might have been lately was such a pompously respectable indeed venerable old gentleman that a maiden might surely trust herself with him alone, even in a grove of trees. And so, in a furtive and backward-glancing manner, she stole into the wood.
"It's only losing his money that'll ever hurt Andrew," replied his father cheerfully. "Don't you worry about what he'll say." Unfortunately, Mr. Walkingshaw forgot that the provision for this happy marriage was, in fact, coming indirectly from Andrew's pocket.
"When do you want me to start?" "At once." "At once!" "Yes, at once, before you see anybody else." "I'm not even to say good-by?" "No." "You've got some game on," said Heriot. "I've got to protect myself and my family." His father looked at him searchingly; but his face remained a solemn medallion of virtue. Then Mr. Walkingshaw again fell back in his chair and mused.
"If he's light-headed, why does she pay any attention to him?" The door opened, this time without a tap, and in petrified silence they beheld the portly form of Heriot Walkingshaw, arrayed in a yellow dressing-gown, holding between his fingers a cigar, and smiling upon them with a curious blend of satisfaction and meekness. "I have recovered," said he.
Jean's face had turned a becoming shade of crimson, and the artist was on his feet. Naturally the woman spoke first. "I I didn't expect you back so soon, father." "So I perceive," said Mr. Walkingshaw. The young man turned to him with creditable composure. "One can hardly judge of the effect in this light," said he. Mr.
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