some nights. Oakshott said she had told him to tell her the moment I arrived; so I trickled into the smoking room and waited, and presently in she came. A glance showed me that she was perturbed, and even peeved. Her eyes had a goggly look, and altogether she appeared considerably pipped. “Darling!” I said, and attempted the good old embrace; but she sidestepped like a bantam weight.
“Don’t!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Everything’s the matter! Bertie, you remember asking me, when you left, to make myself pleasant to your uncle?”
“Yes.”
The idea being, of course, that as at that time I was more or less dependent on Uncle Willoughby I couldn’t very well marry without his approval. And though I knew he wouldn’t have any objection to Florence, having known her father since they were at Oxford together, I hadn’t wanted to take any chances; so I had told her to make an effort to fascinate the old boy.
“You told me it would please him particularly if I asked him to read me some of his history of the family.”
“Wasn’t he pleased?”
“He was delighted. He finished writing the thing yesterday afternoon, and read me nearly all of it last night. I have never had such a shock in my life. The book is an outrage. It is impossible. It is horrible!”
“But, dash it, the family weren’t so bad as all that.”
“It is not a history of the family at all. Your uncle