Brendon was silent. "Back!" he cried fiercely. Could you come to tea at my rooms one afternoon, or would you dine with me somewhere, and do a theatre? We could have a private room, of course, if you do not wish to be seen about London, and a box at the theatre. Bird, the turner, to give him an order this evening. There was more shouting. In this state, he was laid upon a bench, to sleep off his drunken fit, while his wretched mother, in spite of her passionate supplications and resistance, was, by Blueskin's command, forcibly ejected from the house, and driven out of the Mint. He hated travelling second-class with her—indeed, he never did—but he also disliked travelling in the same train when his daughter was in an inferior class, because of the look of the thing. “In it lies the secret poison he used to turn you into an Oracle. It is better to face the truth. Brendon,” she said, “if I could ask for advice, or borrow money from any one, I would from you—there! But I cannot.
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