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‘I forgot,’ she stammered, gathering herself together happily, ‘I forgot the time.’ She felt that after all there was a bond between them which nothing could break—the tie of blood. They were father and daughter, united by sympathies obscure but fundamental. Kissing was not in the Tellwright blood, but she had a fleeting wish to hug the tyrant.

The next morning there was no outward sign that anything unusual had occurred. As the clock in the kitchen struck eight Anna carried to the back parlour a tray on which were a dish of bacon and a coffee-pot. Breakfast was already laid for three. She threw a housekeeper’s glance over the table, and called: ‘Father!’ Mr. Tellwright was re-setting some encaustic tiles in the lobby. He came in, coat-less, and, dropping a trowel on the hearth, sat down at the end of the table nearest the fireplace. Anna sat opposite to him, and poured out the coffee.

On the dish were six pieces of bacon. He put one piece on a plate, and set it carefully in front of Agnes’s vacant chair, two he passed to Anna, three he kept for himself.