CHAPTER VIII.

ALICE FITZGERALD.

"Oh, only some rubbishy old bills," said Claude, impatiently; "those Oxford tradesmen are the greatest scoundrels on the face of the earth! It's always their way! But the best plan is to take no notice of them; shy their bills into the fire, and leave them alone."

And, in spite of Alice's remonstrances, he walked to the fireplace, and thrust a roll of letters, which he took from his pocket, into the flames, and watched them turn to ashes.

"They will send them in again, Claude," said Alice, gravely.

"Then I shall burn them again," he said, with a laugh; "the rascals ought to know better!"

"But are you quite sure they are wrong, Claude?" she said, as they went back to the window. "Are you quite sure you never bought any of the things? Have you looked them carefully through?"

"Oh, I know all about it," said Claude, in a vexed voice; "do let it alone, dear. I have plenty of money to pay them all, if necessary; so please leave me to manage my own affairs. There's a splendid leader in the 'Times' to-day, Miss Trafford; have you read it?" he said, turning to Evelyn, and beginning a conversation with her on the politics of Europe.

Alice Fitzgerald left the window, took her work out of her pocket, and sat on a low stool by the fire; but she did not recover her usual good spirits for some time afterwards.