"Well, well, well," chuckled Lord Barmouth, "he was a miserable screw for a girl like you. But I--I hear that he's going to shoot him first time he sees him."

"Oh, papa! Then they must never meet."

"But--but I'm not saying what I meant to say--all I'd got ready for you, Maudey. How dare you disgrace your family like that?"

"Don't--don't blame me, papa darling. You don't know what I suffered before I consented to go."

"But, you know--"

"Oh, papa, don't blame your poor girl, who loves you so very dearly."

"But--but it's such a doose of a come down, my darling. It's--it's-- it's ten times worse than any case I know."

"Papa, for shame!" cried Maude, indignantly.

"Now--now--now, don't you begin to bully me, Maudey my dear. I get so much of that at home."

"Then you will forgive me, dear?" said Maude, nestling up to the poor weak old man.

"But--but I oughtn't, Maudey, I oughtn't, you know," he said, caressing her.

"But you will, dear, and you'll come and stay with us often. We are so happy."

"Are so--so happy!" said the old man, with a look of perplexity on his countenance.

"Yes, dear. He loves me so, and--oh, papa, I do love him. You will come? Never mind what mamma and Tom say."

"But Tom is like a madman about it, Maudey. He says he'll have you back if he dies for it."

"Oh, papa!"

"Yes, my pet, he's in a devil of a rage, and it comes out dreadfully every time he grows tired."

"Then _they_ must not meet either."

"No, my dear, I suppose it would be best not," said the old man; "but-- but do you know, Maudey, I feel as if I was between those two confounded stools in the proverb, and--and I know I shall come to the ground.

But--but where--where did you get married?"

"At a little church, papa dear, close to Holborn."

"Of course," groaned the old man to himself. "Close to Saffron Hill, I suppose."

"I don't know the street, papa dear."

"That's right, my pet. I mean that's wrong. I--I--really, Maudey my pet, I'm so upset with the travelling, and now with finding you, that I--I hardly know what I ought to say."

"Say you forgive your own little girl, dear, and that you will love my own darling husband as if he were your son."

"But--but, Maudey, my dear, I don't feel as if I could. You see when a poor man like that--I wish Tom would come."

"Tom!" cried Maude, springing up and turning pale.

"Yes, yes, he's coming to join me, my pet. Would you like to see him now, or--or--or wait a bit till he isn't so furious?"

"Oh, papa dear, I dare not meet him. They would quarrel, and what shall I do? We must escape--"

"But are you staying in this hotel?"

"Yes, papa dear."

"That's--that's doosed awkward, my pet, for I shouldn't like there to be a row."

"No, no, pa dear. Don't say a word to Tom, or there will be a horrible scene."

"But, my pet, we've come on purpose to find you, and now you're going away."

"Only for a time, dear," cried Maude, embracing the old man frantically.

"Don't, don't tell Tom."

"But I feel as if I must, my darling. Tom is so angry, and we've spent such a lot of money trying to find you. It would have paid for no end of good dinners at the club."

"Yes, yes, but we will escape directly, and Tom will never know."

"But what's the good of my finding you, my darling, if you are going to bolt again directly?"

"Only to wait till Tom has cooled down, dear."

"Well, well, I suppose I must promise."

"My own darling papa," cried Maude, kissing him. "I'll write to you soon, dear; and as soon as Tom is quiet and has forgiven us, we shall all be as happy as the day is long."

She kissed him again quickly on either cheek, and then, before he could even make up his mind to stay her, she had hurried into the hotel, leaving her father scratching his head and setting his dark wig all awry.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

THE REINFORCEMENT.

"This--this is a pretty devil of a state of affairs," muttered the old man. "How can a man in my position make friends with a confounded fellow who goes about turning a handle in the street? The girl's mad-- mad as can be, and--Ah, Tom, my boy."

"Hallo, governor," said that personage, sharply. "What's the matter?"

"Doosed tired, my boy."

"Why, you look as if you'd seen the chap who drew what's-his-name's curtains in the dead of night."

"Do I--do I, my boy?" stammered the old man; and then to himself, "I feel sure he'll find me out."