What was to be done?
Nothing was to be done, but to fly into a rage--to grind my teeth, and throw down all my things, in the solitude of my own room--and then to go back to Paris.
Lucilla behaved charmingly.

When she saw how angry and how distressed I was, she suppressed all exhibition of disappointment on her side, with the truest and kindest consideration for my feelings.

"Write to me often," said the charming creature, "and come back to me as soon as you can." Her father took her to London.

Two days before they left, I said good-bye at the rectory and at Browndown; and started--once more by the Newhaven and Dieppe route--for Paris.
I was in no humour (as your English saying is) to mince matters, in controlling this new outbreak on the part of my evergreen parent.

I insisted on instantly removing him from Paris, and taking him on a continental tour.