Suppose that in all this world, during all its ages, there never was a case of a person being _always_ in an ill-humor.

I believe that even Xantippe had her lucid intervals of amiability, during which she fondled her Socrates.

At all events, father has.

On the day after my disappointment, one such interval occurs.

He relents, allows Algy and Barbara to have the carriage, and sends them off to Tempest.
Either Mr.Musgrave becomes aware of this fact, or, as I had anticipated, he forgets his promise, for he never appears, and I do not see him again till Sunday.