I put on my gown, without the faintest idea of whether it is inside out, or the reverse.

I go slowly down-stairs, every banister marked by a fresh decision.

I open the dining-room door.

Father's voice is the first thing that I hear; father's voice, raised and rasping.

He is standing up, and has a letter in his hand; from the engaging blue of its color, and the harmony of its shape, too evidently a bill.
"I regret to have to hurt your feelings," he is saying, in that awful civil voice, at which we all--small and great--quake, "but the next time that _this_ occurs" (pointing to the bill), "I must request you to find accommodation for yourself elsewhere, as really my poor house is not a fit place for a young gentleman with such princely views on the subject of expenditure." The object of this pleasant harangue is Algy, who, also standing, with his face very white, his lips very much compressed, and his eyes flashing with a furious light, is fronting his parent on the hearth-rug.
Behind the tea-urn, mother is mingling her drink with tears, and making little covert signs to Algy, at all rates to hold his tongue.
My mind is made up, never to be unmade again.