"It is three minutes to ten," cried Clara, suddenly, glancing at the
clock.
"Good gracious! So it is! Now for our little tableau!" Ida pushed the
champagne bottles obtrusively forward, in the direction of the door, and
scattered oyster shells over the cloth.
"Have you your pipe, Charles?"
"My pipe! Yes."
"Then please smoke it. Now don't argue about it, but do it, for you will
ruin the effect otherwise."
The large man drew out a red case, and extracted a great yellow
meerschaum, out of which, a moment later, he was puffing thick wreaths
of smoke. Harold had lit a cigar, and both the girls had cigarettes.
"That looks very nice and emancipated," said Ida, glancing round. "Now I
shall lie on this sofa. So! Now, Charles, just sit here, and throw your
arm carelessly over the back of the sofa. No, don't stop smoking. I like
it. Clara, dear, put your feet upon the coal-scuttle, and do try to look
a little dissipated. I wish we could crown ourselves with flowers. There
are some lettuces on the sideboard. Oh dear, here he is! I hear his
key." She began to sing in her high, fresh voice a little snatch from a
French song, with a swinging tra la-la chorus.
The Doctor had walked home from the station in a peaceable and relenting
frame of mind, feeling that, perhaps, he had said too much in the
morning, that his daughters had for years been models in every way,
and that, if there had been any change of late, it was, as they said
themselves, on account of their anxiety to follow his advice and to
imitate Mrs. Westmacott. He could see clearly enough now that that
advice was unwise, and that a world peopled with Mrs. Westmacotts would
not be a happy or a soothing one. It was he who was, himself, to
blame, and he was grieved by the thought that perhaps his hot words had
troubled and saddened his two girls.
This fear, however, was soon dissipated. As he entered his hall he heard
the voice of Ida uplifted in a rollicking ditty, and a very strong smell
of tobacco was borne to his nostrils. He threw open the dining-room
door, and stood aghast at the scene which met his eyes.
The room was full of the blue wreaths of smoke, and the lamp-light shone
through the thin haze upon gold-topped bottles, plates, napkins, and a
litter of oyster shells and cigarettes. Ida, flushed and excited, was
reclining upon the settee, a wine-glass at her elbow, and a cigarette
between her fingers, while Charles Westmacott sat beside her, with his
arm thrown over the head of the sofa, with the suggestion of a caress.
On the other side of the room, Clara was lounging in an arm-chair, with
Harold beside her, both smoking, and both with wine-glasses beside them.
The Doctor stood speechless in the doorway, staring at the Bacchanalian
scene.