Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. She was fine and tender. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. Her first orders were to summon the rest of her servants to make immediate preparations for her departure for Lancashire. As they kissed goodbye, she hoped that he felt the same reluctance to part. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness.
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