CHAPTER I

Down the steep street where stands the office of Walkingshaw & Gilliflower, careers a hat. It is a silk hat and of a large size, the hat of a professional man of the most dignified standing and evident brain capacity. Nothing could show better the innate depravity of March winds than their choice of such a hat to play with. They had thousands to choose from—bowlers, caps, wideawakes, all kinds of commonplace head-gear—and here they have selected for their sport this cylinder of silk, symbolical of all most worthy of the city's respect. It leaps and bumps and slides, propelled by the breeze and the law of gravitation, down the decorously paved hill, in company with a little cloud of dust and some scraps of dirty paper. And behind it, now at a canter, now at a panting trot, ambles the portly form of Mr. Heriot Walkingshaw. The very devil must be in the wind to-day.

At the corner of Queen Street the hat met the full force of the easterly blast, and bidding good-by to gravitation, turned at right angles and skimmed for forty yards through space as though the brothers Wright had mounted it. Then it resumed the action of a Rugby football, pitching now on its end and now on its middle, and behaving accordingly each time. Mr. Walkingshaw, perceiving that it was now bouncing in the direction he desired to go, fell for a moment to a walk and looked around for some assistant. But the only spectators within hail happened to be two errand boys who had not seen a circus for some time and evinced no desire to interrupt the entertainment. So off he started again, his white spats twinkling beneath his flapping overcoat, and covered the first fifty yards in such promising fashion that he was able to strike the revolving rim a series of smart raps with his umbrella before the wind had recovered its breath. Then suddenly up leapt the hat, cannoned from a lamp-post on to the railings of the Queen Street Gardens, from them across the pavement into the gutter, and there, getting nicely on edge, careered like a hoop, with the thud of Heriot's footsteps growing fainter behind.

Down the next cross street came two acquaintances of the Writer to the Signet, and they stopped at the corner in amazement.

"Good God, that's Heriot Walkingshaw!" cried one.

"A man of his age!" replied the other; "he's running like a wing three-quarter—look at his stride!"

A benevolent lady half stopped the hat with her umbrella. The W.S. was up to it. He stooped to reach it—a quick grab and he had it by the rim.

"Well picked up, sir!" cried one of the acquaintances.

Mr. Walkingshaw did not hear. He was on the other side of the street and engrossed in brushing his quarry with his coat sleeve.

"It's a wonderful performance," remarked the other acquaintance; "but it ought just about to finish him."

"Will it? Look at him—he hasn't turned a hair!"

"It's amazing—positively amazing!" they murmured together as they watched their elderly friend not only replace his trophy on his head, but cock it at an angle that breathed reckless defiance to the March winds.

"Did you ever see Heriot Walkingshaw with his hat at that angle before?"

"As often as I've seen him do even time chasing it!"

Off he strode, breathing faster than usual, and his hat still a little ruffled, but otherwise as jaunty a figure as ever left an office; while his two acquaintances went away to narrate to the wondering city what their astonished eyes had seen.

---

Meanwhile the junior partner was unburdening his soul to the confidential clerk.

"That's the end of Guthrie and Co.!" he exclaimed wrathfully. "The whole thing settled in a fortnight—we might be a marriage registry! It's just been 'we agree to this,' 'we agree to that,' 'we agree to anything you suggest.' We haven't fought a single point. I'd have made those creditors whistle a bit before they saw yon five thousand pounds! But what's my father say? You heard him yourself—'moral obligation'—'might be fought!'—'get it settled.' He's botched the whole business."

Mr. Thomieson shook his grizzled head.

"It's certainly not been our usual way of doing business."

Andrew glowered at his desk.

"He said he was going to leave the business to me, and in forty-eight hours he was taking more responsibilities on his shoulders than he had for years! He barely has the decency to ask me for my opinion now; and when I give it, he tells me it's timid. Timid!" The junior partner's voice rose to a shout. "He just goes at things like a bull, and before I've time to get in two words edgeways, the thing is settled and he's out of the office whistling!"

"That whistling's a queer thing he's taken to," observed the clerk.

"He was doing it coming home from church last Sunday."

"Verra strange, verra strange," commented Mr. Thomieson.

He seemed more struck with the peculiarity of the senior partner's conduct; Andrew with its offensiveness.

"He shows a fine grasp of things all the same," added the clerk. "In that way it fairly does me good sir, to see him so speerited. It minds me of old times."

"A proper like business we'd have had to-day if he'd gone on like this in old times!" grumbled Andrew. "He gets through things quick enough, I admit; but I tell you he does not take the same interest in them. He talks of 'dry details'!"

"Is that so?" said Mr. Thomieson, his eyes opening.

"It's a fact. And he's started cracking jokes with the clerks."

"Aye, I heard him yesterday myself. It sounded awful bad in this office."

"I tell you what it'll end in," said Andrew. "It'll end in our losing our business—that'll be the end of it. And this is what he calls 'a few years of quiet usefulness'!"

The junior partner's upper lip seemed to hang like a curtain half covering his face. Behind it he swore so distinctly that the confidential clerk discreetly withdrew.

---

CHAPTER II

"It's quite remarkable how well I'm keeping—quite astonishing," said Mr. Walkingshaw to himself, as he continued his walk with his recovered hat perched at the angle that had so surprised his acquaintances.

A month had passed since the stormy afternoon when he had said farewell to his family, and he now looked back upon that adieu as the rashest and most premature act of his life. Andrew must have frightened him; that was the only conceivable excuse for his conduct, seen in the white light of his present rude health; and he secretly decided that the junior partner had been getting a little too much rope. If you once let these lads kick up their heels, the deuce was in it. He would do nothing unjust, but he would see that he didn't encourage Andrew to alarm him again. Thus does the virtue even of the most exemplary occasionally over-exert itself.

Meanwhile, it was uncommonly pleasant to be able to chase one's hat for a quarter of a mile and feel not a twinge of gout or rheumatism after the merry pursuit. Mr. Walkingshaw felt half inclined to give his hat a start again. What a joke it would be to kick it over the railings next time! At this very undignified thought, he recollected himself and for a few minutes looked as decorously pompous as the head of the firm should. But somehow or other that run seemed to have stirred his blood. The fun of kicking his hat over the railings returned so forcibly that there spread over his ruddy face a smile which greatly surprised the wife of one of his most respected clients passing at that moment in her carriage. She too returned home to talk of Mr. Walkingshaw's curious demeanor in the public streets of his native city.

The kicking fancy, by a natural chain of thought, reminded him that the England and Scotland International was being played next Saturday. He must be there, of course; and wouldn't he shout himself hoarse for Scotland! He had a moment's dismay when he remembered that old Berstoun had made an appointment to come in on Saturday and see him about his confounded money affairs. Then he cheered up again. Let the old chap be hanged! He would wire and put him off. In fact, he must be put off. For had not Madge Dunbar promised to come to the match with him? By this time he had reached the door of his house, and it occurred to him forcibly that afternoon tea was always a much pleasanter function if Madge were present. He hoped she wouldn't be out calling.

The dignified twilight of his hall sobered him considerably. He had been following a strangely frivolous line of thought, he told himself. Certainly he must never allow his hat to escape again. That run had quite upset his equanimity: he found himself going upstairs two steps at a time, and had to pause and shorten his stride.

In the drawing-room he found his sister and the widow.

"Hullo!" said the W.S. before he could recollect himself.

"Hullo!" smiled the widow archly.

He had felt ashamed of the exclamation the moment it escaped him, but finding it received so prettily, he secretly resolved to say it again some day—after a week or two had elapsed, perhaps; confining himself to more dignified remarks in the interval.

"You look as though you had heard good news," said Mrs. Dunbar.

"I've been chasing my hat," he chuckled.

He had meant to make no allusion to the undignified episode, and here he was blurting it out first thing! He began to feel puzzled by this odd persistence of high spirits.

"Not in the street, surely?" said Miss Walkingshaw, with her longest face.

"Oh, I hope it was in the street!" cried the widow. "I'd have loved to see you!"

Her dear friend regarded this speech with the strongest disapproval; in fact, she had never quite approved of Madge since those unlucky words of hers. But Mrs. Dunbar had ceased for some reason to show the same marked regard for her opinion. It was Heriot who had again refused to hear of her leaving, and she seemed content to win his approval.

"It was in the street," smiled Mr. Walkingshaw. "I chased it for quite half a mile, and ran it down single-handed. I wish you had been there, Madge. You'd have seen there was life in the old dog still!"

He had doubled the distance and forgotten the lady with the umbrella; but then, as Andrew had remarked, a distaste for dry detail had suddenly become characteristic of his recovered health.

"Too much life sometimes, I think!" she exclaimed coquettishly; and Mr. Walkingshaw winked in reply.

He was inwardly as surprised at the wink as he had been at the "hullo." These aberrations seemed to come quite spontaneously. He wished he could understand what caused them.

"Have you had a tiring day at the office?" asked the dry Scotch voice of his sister.

Her familiar accents instinctively banished the aberrations.

"Tolerably, tolerably," he said, with his old air. "We had the affairs of Guthrie and Co. to settle up. I settled them, though."

"Andrew would be a great help," she replied, with an apprehensive glance at him. She was much in her nephew's confidence at present.

"Andrew, pooh!" said his father. "He'd talk the hind leg off an elephant. When things need settling, I just settle them myself and leave him to grumble away to Thomieson."

Miss Walkingshaw gasped, and the widow gave the sweetest little laugh.

"Poor Andrew!" said she.

"Poor Andrew indeed," retorted her friend, with more indignation than she had almost ever permitted herself in the presence of her formidable brother.

He looked at her in genuine surprise. So subtly had his point of view altered that he quite failed to grasp her cause of complaint.

"What's the matter, Mary?" he asked.

"Oh, if you don't see, what's the good in my trying to explain?"

He merely stared at her, and the widow tactfully interposed.

"Of course you are going to the match on Saturday?" said she.

"Of course, Madge."

"Have you forgotten Mr. Berstoun is coming to see you?" asked Miss Walkingshaw.

He waved aside this objection with a dignified sweep of his hand. A piece of cake happened to be in it, and the icing flew across the floor. On the instant he was on his hands and knees collecting it.

"Berstoun's a mere nuisance," he answered from the carpet. "He'll never get out of debt if he lives to a thousand. What's the good in his coming to see me? Let him tell his creditors to go to the devil; that's the only sensible thing to do."

He rose chuckling—

"He'll go himself some day; so they'll meet again."

His sister's face was too much for the widow's gravity. She began to laugh hysterically, her black eyes dancing all the time in the merriest fashion at her host. It was so infectious that in a moment he had joined her.

"Won't they?" he kept asking through his chuckles. "Won't they, Madge?"

She kept nodding, choked with laughter, and another strange sensation began to puzzle Mr. Walkingshaw. It was not so much something new as something forgotten which was beginning to return, and it concerned this very sympathetic widow. She was an uncommonly nice woman—really uncommonly: and what an odd pleasure he began to feel in her society! He felt even more satisfaction than when he had run down his hat.

---

CHAPTER III

It was upon a fine April morning that Mr. Walkingshaw made his momentous discovery. His sister had left her room on her way to breakfast when she heard his voice calling her. It had so curious a note of excitement that she got a little flustered. Whatever could be the matter? She hurried to his dressing-room door and tapped with a trembling hand. She was not easily agitated as a rule, but her brother had been very disconcerting for the past few weeks, and now his voice was odd. She remembered reading of gentlemen lying on their dressing-room floors with razors in their hands—

"Come in!" he cried impatiently.

She found him dressed all but his coat, and he was standing by the window looking out over the street and the circular garden.

"Come here, Mary," he said, and pointed at the houses seen through the leafless trees. "Have they been doing anything to the Hendersons' house?"

"What doing to it?" she exclaimed.

"Painting it, or brightening it, or—or anything of that kind?"

"Who ever heard of painting a house!"

From which it may be gathered that the good lady was not in the habit of visiting other cities.

"Well then, washing it?"

"Mr. Henderson washing his house! Whatever would he do that for?"

"Tuts, tuts," said her brother, "I'm only asking you. It looks so uncommonly distinct. Can you not count the chimney-cans?"

"Me? You must get younger eyes than mine, Heriot."

"I can count them," he answered.

"You can! But I thought you'd been complaining you couldn't always recognize people across the street nowadays."

"I can count those chimneys," he repeated. "I've counted them five times, and they come to fourteen each time. I'd like to get some one younger to count them too. Where's Madge Dunbar?"

He started impetuously for the door.

"She's dressing!" cried the horrified lady. "You can't get her in here—you with your coat off, too!"

Mr. Walkingshaw turned back.

"Well, anyhow," said he, "I'll lay you half a crown there are fourteen chimneys on Henderson's house. Will you take it up?"

"When did you hear I'd taken to betting?" she gasped.

He waved aside the reproach airily, much as he waved aside everything she said nowadays, the poor lady reflected. His next words merely deepened her distress.

"Look at my face carefully," he commanded. "Study it—touch it if you like—examine it with a lens—give it your undivided attention while I count twenty."

He counted slowly, while she stared conscientiously, afraid even to wink. "Now, what have you observed?"

"You're looking very well, Heriot," she answered timidly.

"Did you ever see a man of my age look better?"

"N—no," she stammered.

"Well, don't be afraid to say so, for it's perfectly true. Do you mind a kind of deep wrinkle under my eyes? Where's that gone now?"

"I can't imagine, Heriot."

"Well, don't look distressed; it's bonnier away."

"Yes," she said in a flustered voice, "you do have a kind of smoother look."

"Smoother and harder," he replied, prodding his ribs with his fingers.

She gave a little cry of distress.

"You're growing thin! Your waistcoat's hanging quite loose. Oh, Heriot, it's terrible to see you that way!"

Her heart might be a little withered by all those northern winters, with never another heart to keep it warm, but it could still beat faster at a breath of suspicion cast upon her hospitality. She had not been feeding her only brother properly!

"Tell me yourself what you'd like for your dinner!" she entreated him.

He laughed at her genially.

"Pooh! Tuts! Did you ever in your life see me eat a better dinner than I've been taking lately? You might give one a suet pudding oftener, but that's all I have to complain of."

Heriot had always been addicted to suet pudding, but for a number of years past his doctor's opinion had been adverse to this form of diet for a gentleman of gouty habit.

"But what about your gout, Heriot?" she asked.

"Gout? Fiddle-de-dee! Who's got gout? Not I, for one."

He had been glancing complacently at his improved reflection in the mirror. Abruptly he stepped up close to the glass and examined his visage with unconcealed excitement.

"Good God!" he murmured.

Then, with much the expression Crusoe must have worn when he spied the footprint, he turned to his sister, and, grasping a lock of hair upon his brow, bent his head towards her, and demanded—

"What color's that?"

"Dear me," she said, "it looks quite brown. I didn't know you had any brown hair left."

He raised his head and looked at her in solemn silence till she began to feel dreadfully confused. Then he bent again.

"Do you notice anything else?"

"N—no; unless your hair's got thicker. But that's not likely at your time of life."

"It is not likely," said he. "It is most improbable—in fact, it is practically impossible; but it is thicker."

He rubbed his chin and gazed at her with the queerest look. Mary had known him since he trundled a hoop, but she never remembered him go on like this before. As for Heriot, he seemed to be debating whether he should spring something still more surprising on her or not. But she looked so uncomfortable already, so totally without the least clue to his mysterious words, so unconscious of anything stranger about him than his shirt-sleeves and loss of weight, that he only uttered something between a gasp and a sigh, and, turning away from her, took up his brushes to smooth his augmented hairs.

"I'll be down to breakfast in a jiffy," he said.

Miss Walkingshaw thought that an odd kind of phrase for Heriot to be using.

---

CHAPTER IV

Andrew no longer walked to the office with his father in the mornings. Not that he had anything to do with the altered custom: in fact, he was always most careful to assure his friends that he had more than once waited as long as five minutes to give his father the opportunity of having his company—if he was wishing it. But Mr. Walkingshaw was never less than ten minutes late nowadays.

On this particular morning he set forth a full half-hour after his son. He had been very absent-minded after his talk with his sister,—not even Mrs. Dunbar could keep his attention for more than a moment,—and he had sat for the best part of twenty minutes thoughtfully putting on his boots. One or two acquaintances who saw him on the way from his house to his office often recalled his demeanor that morning. Now he would loiter along with bent shoulders, his hands behind his back, trailing his umbrella and brooding as though he contemplated bankruptcy. Then suddenly his pace would quicken, the umbrella whirled round and round like a Catherine wheel, and with his head held jauntily and the merriest smile he would swagger along like a young blood of twenty-six who had just been accepted by an heiress. And then abruptly he would lapse into his mournful gait.

"I want to see Mr. Andrew," said he, as soon as he was seated in his private room.

The junior partner entered with a melancholy visage and a reproachful eye.

"Oh, you've come at last," he remarked, too quietly to be rude, too pointedly to be pleasant.

But his father seemed not to have heard.

"Sit down, sit down," he said; and then in an earnest manner and with the gravest face began, "I've something to tell you, Andrew, that I think you ought to know."

Andrew's visage relaxed. This gravity promised better than anything his father's behavior had led him to expect of late.

"Something most extraordinary has happened. You've noticed a little kind of difference in me of late, possibly?"

"I have," said Andrew, with an intonation that made his acquiescence particularly thorough.

"A sort of cheerfulness and healthiness, and so on?"

"And so on," assented Andrew.

"Well, I've accounted for it at last!"

"Oh?" said Andrew.

This did not strike him as quite so interesting. He thought of the papers he had left, and glanced at his watch.

"You mind my telling you about Cyrus's theory of the cells of the body—that all they needed was the proper kind of stimulation, and they'd be as good as new? Well, he went one better than that sometimes. I never told you what his idea was—it sounded kind of daft-like when you didn't hear him laying it down himself—but I'll tell you now."

His voice sank impressively, and his junior partner grew vaguely uneasy. This was a most unsuitable place and hour to be discussing quack medical theories. He didn't approve of it at all.

"His idea was that every cell of the body—mine and yours, Andrew,"—(Andrew grew exceedingly uncomfortable: this verged on the indecent),—"every single cell of them is just a kind of wee vessel in which chemical and electrical changes are going on. While they keep brisk we keep young, and when they get off the boil, so to speak, we grow old. Well now, what's to hinder one stirring them up to boil faster and faster, instead of slower and slower? And if they once did that, of course you'd begin to grow young instead of going on getting old. Andrew, it's happened to me."

Andrew started.

"What has?"

"I'm growing young again!"

His junior partner looked at him for half a minute in dead silence. Then he decided that this statement had better be answered humorously.

"Is this story a sample?" he inquired.

"You don't believe me?"

Andrew's cheeks bulged in a faint smile.

"Am I expected to?"

"Look at my waistcoat—when did you ever see it as loose as that, and me healthier than I've been for years, and eating more? Look at my face—where are the wrinkles gone? Look at my head—how long is it since you've seen a patch of brown hair there?"

To complete this overwhelming series of proofs, he leapt up, and with an agile jump on one foot whirled the other leg clean over the back of his chair.

"It's twenty years and more since I last did that!"

Andrew was fairly startled out of his skepticism now. He had the eyes of a goldfish, and his upper lip and swelling cheeks twitched nervously.

"What an awful thing to happen!" he murmured.

"It has happened, though," said his father.

"But surely—oh, it must just be temporary. You don't think it will last, do you?"

"I think nothing," replied Mr. Walkingshaw, with conviction. "I have no settled opinions left. I am a mass of cells in active eruption."

He began to chuckle.

"I'm like a dashed volcano, Andrew!"

His son looked at him piteously. To suffer this sea change was bad enough, but to laugh about it was diabolical. Mr. Walkingshaw could not but sober down under such an eye. He gathered his countenance into an aspect as portentously solemn as his dwindled wrinkles could achieve. His son grieved afresh to see how their passing diminished the once overpowering respectability of his parent.

"It's an awful predicament," said Mr. Walkingshaw, shaking his bronzing head.

"Awful—just awful! What will people say?"

"That's just what I've been wondering. How am I going to break it to them?"

"You're not going to tell people!"

"But they'll notice for themselves."

Andrew gazed at him gloomily.

"It may pass off,"—his face cleared a little,—"in fact, it's certain to."

"It doesn't feel much like it at present: I'm fairly bursting with spirits," smiled Mr. Walkingshaw, and then recollected himself and grew grave again. "What's to be done supposing people do notice?" he asked.

"We'll just have to stretch a point," said Andrew somberly, "and give some other explanation."

"We might give some decent, respectable doctor the credit for it," his father suggested.

"They'd all be afraid to take it, if it went on any further. Imagine a respectable doctor admitting he'd made a man grow younger! I dare say they might be proud of such a performance in London, but they've more decency here!"

It seemed characteristic of Mr. Walkingshaw's calamity that he should bounce up like a tennis ball after each well-meant effort to depress him.

"In that case," said he cheerfully, "we'll just have to say I am trying to make myself more of a companion for you."

Andrew started violently.

"We'll say no such thing! Do you suppose I'm going to have my name mixed up with it?"

His father remained serene.

"Well then, what do you suggest?"

Andrew's cheeks drooped, carrying the corners of his mouth down with them.

"There's no good in suggesting. You can trust your friends to do that for you. Pretty stories they'll be circulating!"

Mr. Walkingshaw regarded him with dignity, mingled with a trace of good-natured contempt for such a lack of spirit.

"My dear Andrew," said he, "you need not be under the slightest apprehension. Whatever my external appearance may become—and I trust it will remain not altogether unpleasing—I shall see to it that my conduct rebuts any breath of scandal. I shall be, if possible, more circumspect, more scrupulously observant of the rules which should regulate the behavior of a man in my position, more discreet both in speech and conduct. The tongues of the libelous will be effectually silenced then."

Mr. Walkingshaw accompanied these excellent sentiments by gently swinging himself to and fro in his revolving chair and rolling a scrap of blotting-paper into a pellet, which, at the conclusion of his speech, he absent-mindedly discharged at the office clock. His son seemed as impressed by these movements as by his words.

"You'll find it easier," he began bitterly, "to set people talking than to—"

"When you come to think of it, the situation is not without decided advantages," his father interrupted, springing up and pacing the room with an animated air. "Just think of the renewed opportunities for doing all kinds of useful and beneficial things! I might take a more prominent part in public life: I might even go in for politics. I certainly shall take a bit of salmon-fishing. The study of some of our classical authors suggests itself as a relaxation for my leisure moments. The subjects of aeroplanes and national defense are worthy of consideration, too. I should like to visit several of the continental countries—our own colonies are even more attractive; there wouldn't be the same difficulties about the language. Or, by Jingo, Andrew, I might learn French and Italian! Yes, the position is not without its compensations."

He stopped beside his son and laid his hand upon his shoulder.

"I propose to widen greatly the scope of my energies, without in the least forfeiting the respect of my fellow-citizens. That is my ideal, Andrew. Ah, my boy, you and I will have some great times together! By that I mean, of course, some beneficial and profitable times."

He took a sudden step forward and kicked the wastepaper-basket into the fireplace.

"I might even take up football some day, if this goes on," he smiled, and then abruptly recovered his solemnity.

"Beneficial and profitable," he repeated gravely. "Those are to be our watchwords. Will you have a weed?"

The junior partner started out of the reverie into which he had fallen.

"Are you going to start smoking here?" he cried.

"Why the deuce shouldn't I? It's my own office. These old-fashioned ideas of yours about not smoking on business premises are getting out of date. Besides, it keeps the flies away. And now I must get on to my correspondence."

With a cigar in the corner of his mouth and humming something resembling an air, the senior partner dashed into his day's work with the ardor of an egg-collector.

---

In the meantime, the two least satisfactory members of the family were sadly enduring the consequences of their foolishness. To Frank and Jean the world seemed a very gray place at present; and even the daily increasing juvenility of their parent failed to enliven them. They were too engrossed in their own unhappiness to take much notice of it; and what they saw merely distressed them, for so far his beneficent projects had not included them. Frank moped about the house, consorted occasionally with an acquaintance, now and then went away for a day's golf, and at frequent intervals confided to Jean his disgust with the arrangements of the universe. Ellen Berstoun was to have paid them another visit, but for some reason she put it off; and at this decision he was plunged for forty-eight consecutive hours into a frenzy, alternately of relief and despair, which left him at last more lackadaisical than ever. A few days after his father's momentous interview with Andrew, he was roused to fresh anguish by the junior partner's departure to spend a week-end at Berstoun Castle, and his state of mind now became so unbearable that he abruptly announced to his sister—

"I can't stick this any longer! I'm going up to town."

"What for?" she asked.

"For a bust," he answered desperately. "I'm going to try to—to—to forget."

And the poor youth strode hurriedly out of the room to examine the state of his silk hat and his finances.

Jean devoutly wished she too could fly to London! Like a dutiful girl, she had returned, at her father's peremptory bidding, two unopened letters received from that city. Frank knew his address and forwarded them for her. Once or twice after that he himself received a letter in a hand suspiciously resembling the writing on the unbroken envelopes, and it certainly was a fact that on each of these occasions the erring pair were closeted for long together, and that Jean's spirits rose a little for a few hours afterwards. But they soon sank again.

After Frank had announced his desperate resolution she sat alone for some time in the drawing-room. Everybody else was out, and the house seemed prodigiously silent and vast. At last she heard a little noise, which presently took the form of footsteps bounding upstairs, accompanied by a cheerful tuneless whistling. The door was flung open, and her father entered.

It was only at that moment that Jean realized he was a curiously altered man. He was dressed in brown tweeds and a light waistcoat; his face was flushed, and a smile danced in his eyes.

"I've been for a bicycle ride," he announced.

She could hardly believe her ears.

"You—on a bicycle?" she gasped; for Mr. Walkingshaw had been born long before bicycles.

"Yes; I've had a couple of lessons—only two, and I went for a six-mile ride all alone to-day!"

"Then weren't you at the office?"

"In the morning; but one gets no exercise in that beastly office. I need a lot nowadays."

He threw himself into a chair and a smile broke over his face, in which, to her further bewilderment, she recognized an unmistakable flavor of roguishness.

"Thinking of him?" he inquired.

Poor Jean nearly jumped out of her chair.

"Of—of whom?" she gasped.

"The artist fellow, what's his name—Vernon."

"Father!" she said in a low, pained voice.

"Eh? What's the matter?"

She looked at him between grief and amazement.

"You said that his name was never to be mentioned. Do you mean to—why do you—what do you mean, father?"

Mr. Walkingshaw was finding it harder every day to retain his old attitudes in all their dignity. He was altering at an astonishing pace. How many years younger he had become already he could not compute. He had tried once or twice to calculate about where he stood but the surprising thing was that he found he cared less and less what was happening, and how fast it happened. He enjoyed himself amazingly so long as he did not worry; and the obvious moral was—don't worry. At the same time, he had no intention whatsoever of forfeiting the respect of his fellow-citizens, still less of his family. It was true this proviso occurred to him more often after than before he had surprised them by some trifling deviation; still, when it did occur, it occurred forcibly. On this present occasion he suddenly became preternaturally solemn, coughed with a little dry, respectable sound, and replied severely—

"I meant that it must never be mentioned by you, but—ahem—it is—ah—different with your father. I still leave myself at liberty to mention him with reprobation."

Jean jumped up with a sparkling eye.

"In that case I'll leave you. I've obeyed you so far, but I certainly shan't obey you if you tell me to sit and listen to anything against him!"

And she started for the door.

"My dear girl!" cried Mr. Walkingshaw.

He jumped up too, caught her by the hand, and led her to the sofa.

"Now, now," he said kindly; "sit down and tell me all about it."

She looked at him in fresh amazement.

"All about what?"

He found it a little difficult to explain precisely what he meant. He only knew that he felt an unwonted expansion of his heart towards this really charming little daughter.

"All about the weather and crops," he suggested playfully.

Jean began to tremble a little.

"I—I don't understand you at all," said she.

He smiled pleasantly.

"Am I such a very mysterious old fellow?"

At this odd and novel mixture of kindness and queerness she felt her words choking her, as much with fear as anything.

"We—we never have understood each other," she found herself saying.

He looked startled.

"What? You don't mean to say you—But I'm your father."

"I suppose that's the reason."

"I have always tried to do my duty."

"The trouble is, you succeeded."

"What!" he exclaimed. "Do you actually mean to say you—ah—didn't appreciate my duty?"

She was sitting by his side on the sofa, her eyes downcast and her lips obstinately set. Never before in her life had she stood up to him like this, but now that she had begun she was discovering to her surprise that she had more of her father's temper than she had dreamt of.

"No," she said. "I didn't sometimes."

Instead of getting angry, Mr. Walkingshaw seemed merely astonished and interested.

"Perhaps it was the way I did it," he suggested.

She looked up quickly.

"Yes," she answered.

"Well, my dear, I have lately discovered that I shall never be too old to learn. Just tell me how you'd like to be treated, and I'll try to manage it. I am very fond of you, Jean."

Her mouth lost its obstinacy; her eyes and voice grew kind.

"Father dear, if only you'd show it! If only—"

He interrupted her by a resounding kiss.

"More that kind of way?" he smiled.

For answer she threw her arms round him and gave him what he immediately decided to be the pleasantest hugging he had ever enjoyed. This was a method of doing his duty that must certainly be repeated; he had no doubts about that. It led to such surprising results, too. In a few minutes he found himself embarked upon the most charmingly confidential conversation.

"It was a little rough on you," he confessed.

"You mean—?" she hesitated.

"Well, well, perhaps we'd better not allude to it again," he answered kindly.

But apparently she had no intention at all of avoiding the subject.

"Oh, yes," she said eagerly. "I'd like to talk about it with you now."

It did not seem to occur to the W.S. that he might end by committing himself to some expression of sympathy he would repent of later.

"Capital," he answered genially. "You still like the fellow, then?"

"Like him!" she exclaimed. "Oh, father, I—I still love him."

"I wish he'd brush his hair a little better and wear a respectable tie; still, he undoubtedly has some original ideas."

Mr. Walkingshaw found himself musing on the artist's outrageous opinions with a new catholicity. They had staggered him at the moment: they began to interest him now.

"It's a pity he can't make a little more money," he added.

"But I don't need a large income to be happy, father."

"Eh?" said Mr. Walkingshaw.

This was going rather too fast; yet when he looked into her shining eyes, he found it really very difficult to keep severe.

"Money is a very important thing, my dear," he replied.

"It's not nearly so important as love! Surely, father, it's far, far better that two people should be very, very fond of each other than have plenty of money! You do agree with that, don't you?"

It was at this moment that there came to the little advocate-for-love's assistance a recollection of the sympathetic widow. In his mind's eye Mr. Walkingshaw suddenly saw a vision of her black eyes vivaciously beaming, and for some reason this enabled him to regard Jean's point of view in a wholly new and original light.

"Well," said he, "I'm not sure that there isn't something in what you say. I do believe you're right, my dear—in fact, I'm positive you're right. The love for a fine woman—well, it's a first-rate sensation—most refreshing."

"For a woman?" asked Jean, a little surprised. "But we were talking about a man."

There was no mirror available, but Mr. Walkingshaw had a strong suspicion that he must be blushing.

"For a man—of course," he said hastily. "I meant for a man. But in a general way I think I may say that love's the thing for everybody! It's the thing for you and me anyhow, eh, Jean?"

Jean felt as though she had scrubbed a lump of crystal and found it to be a diamond. How was it she had never before discovered these depths of affection and geniality below his awe-inspiring exterior? She had not scrubbed hard enough!

"Yes, indeed!" said she. "Oh, I do understand you now. Father, I'm so happy! And you won't think too hardly of Mr. Vernon, will you?"

"H'm," smiled her father. "That's a matter we might well take to avizandum, I think."

For a daughter of a Writer to the Signet, Jean was woefully ignorant. She did not know what avizandum meant in the least. But she felt sure it was the name of one of the roads to happiness; and she hugged him again.

It was in the midst of this embrace that Mrs. Donaldson entered. She had always esteemed the author of her own existence and her family's prosperity, but she had never hugged him; nor had he shown any evidence of desiring such an operation.

"Good gracious, Jean!" she exclaimed.

"We are arranging a bike ride," beamed her father.

To complete the confusion of his more creditable daughter, this improbable announcement was accompanied by an unabashed wink, directed at his less creditable child apparently for the superfluous purpose of assuring her he jested.

That evening Mr. Walkingshaw began to be discussed by his fellow-citizens in earnest.

---

CHAPTER VI

"You're not drinking, Andrew," said Mr. Walkingshaw. "Go on, fill up your glass. Man, do you call that filling a glass? Here's the way."

Leaning across the table, he poured in the port till it stood above the rim, with the steady hand of a man of forty. He was hardly as young as that yet, but he was amazingly rejuvenated. It could not possibly last, Andrew said to himself; still, he felt dreadfully uncomfortable.

"You seem very anxious I should drink," he said gloomily, looking askance at his brimming glass.

"You're so dull, my boy," his father answered genially. "There's no life in you at all. You for a lover! You ought to have come back looking happy. One would think she'd broken it off."

It was the evening of the same day. Andrew had returned from his visit to the Berstouns shortly after Mrs. Donaldson departed, and as Frank was dining out, he and his father sat alone together over their wine.

"I've no reason to feel particularly happy," he said.

"Eh?" cried his father. "Nothing gone wrong, is there?"

"I don't understand these women."

"No," said Mr. Walkingshaw, with jovial candor, "you'd be a bit of a stick with the sex, I can well imagine. You haven't the cut of a ladies' man: but it's all a matter of practice, my boy; just a matter of learning experience as you go along. What did she say to you?"

Andrew was divided in mind. This tone exasperated him beyond measure. He felt inclined to leave the room. Yet, on the other hand, he judged himself ill-used by his betrothed, and when he had any ground of grievance, he had the pleasant habit of venting his complaints as long as his audience would listen to him. To-night the habit proved even stronger than his distaste for his high-spirited parent.

"She was queer," said he.

"They're all that," replied Mr. Walkingshaw knowingly. "The great thing is not to mind what they say. It's what they do that counts: and she'd be affectionate, I suppose, eh?"

"I've never gone in for much of your spooning and kissing and that sort of thing," began Andrew.

"The more fool you!" interrupted his parent. "What do you think a girl gets engaged for if it isn't to be cuddled?"

He surprised himself by his own acumen. The late Mrs. W. had not been in the least that sort of lady, and he had never been engaged to anybody else; yet here he was laying down the law with the serenest confidence. Some divine instinct must be inspiring him. His son seemed less favorably impressed with his sagacity.

"Ellen's not that sort of girl," said he.

"My dear fellow, they're all that sort. At least, that's my view of the matter. Well, what's gone wrong?"

"I don't know," said Andrew sourly. "I can't make her out. She's different somehow. It was almost as though she wasn't so fond of me."

"Are you sure you've done nothing to annoy her? They're very touchy, you know."

"I haven't done a thing to annoy her. I can swear to that."

"Then," said Mr. Walkingshaw, with inspired conviction, "there's some other fellow cutting you out."

Andrew started.

"Who?"

"Oh, I don't know all her neighbors. It's nobody she's met here, I suppose."

"She never saw a man when she was here but Frank and me."

"Then it's some one in Perthshire," pronounced Mr. Walkingshaw, emphatically but cheerfully.

Andrew frowned at his still brimming glass. He trusted that he did not overvalue himself; at the same time, the idea of another being preferred by a girl who had once enjoyed the privilege of being engaged to Andrew Walkingshaw struck him as far-fetched.

"I don't think it's another man," he said.

"It's my opinion it is, Andrew; and I'm not wanting to lose so nice a daughter-in-law, so you've got to see that she doesn't turn round altogether. You've got to go in and win; make sure of her, my boy!"

Mr. Walkingshaw grew more and more animated and his son more and more distressed. He was behaving so unlike the senior partner in Walkingshaw & Gilliflower.

"What are you wanting me to do?" "Behave less like a damned umbrella," pronounced Mr. Walkingshaw, with a startling lapse into epigram.

Andrew stared.

"Oh?" said he.

"Be lively, and—er—amorous, and—ah—sparkling; that's the sort of thing. Go in for a few new ties and waistcoats. Socks, too, are things that the young men display considerable enterprise in. I was tempted myself this afternoon by a shop window full of really remarkably chaste hosiery—pale green with stripes! you'd look first class in them. I came to the conclusion at last that perhaps I was hardly young enough for them yet; but I invested in half a dozen ties of quite a tasty design."

"You bought half a dozen ties!" exclaimed Andrew.

"I did; and you're welcome to any of them you like. Or will you come with me and we'll choose something?"

"Thank you," replied his son sardonically; "but on the whole I'd sooner trust to nature."

"In that case, Heaven help you, my poor boy! You have your good points, but beauty's not among them. Imagine you as a statue, Andrew! Eh?"

The worthy gentleman laughed genially, but the unhappy lover did not join in his mirth.

"I am glad I amuse you," he said, and rose to leave the table.

"Sit down, sit down, man," his father commanded; "I haven't half finished with you yet. Have you read any poetry to her?"

"I have not."

"Well, read some; try a bit of—er—I'm not so well up in the poets as I hope to be soon, but I fancy Byron has written some very stimulating verses; or why go over the border for them—why not try her with Burns? What's finer than—

"It's very sentimental, I've no doubt," answered the junior partner, in a tone which implied that he was uttering the last word in caustic criticism.

But his father merely grew the more enthusiastic.

"And what else have you got to be but sentimental? My dear boy, my eyes have been opened this very afternoon. I've never been sentimental enough with my children; and what's the consequence? Here's you letting a pretty girl slip through your fingers because you don't let yourself loose on her! Now what you ought to say to her is something like this: 'My own darling—or sweetheart—or even duckie,'—use some popular symbol, as it were, of affection,—'I am so passionately'—or fervently, if you like—let us say, 'so fervently in love with you that I can't hold out'—or perhaps you might find a better word than that; you want to inflame the lassie without startling her. 'I can't endure'—that's a better word—'I can't endure for another month. Marry me four weeks from to-day!' And there you have the whole thing done."

Andrew had remained standing beside the table.

"Is that all now?" he inquired.

His father regarded him with a fine jovial scorn, much as Sir John Falstaff might have regarded the inventor of lemonade.

"I doubt you're a hopeless case," said he. "There's ginger enough in an ordinary policeman to make three of you. But I'm not going to let you lose Ellen Berstoun if I can help it. Run away now and complain to your auntie."

In pointed silence Andrew availed himself of this permission, while his father remained to light a cigar and meditate upon the disadvantages of unalloyed respectability. A fine example in many ways Andrew undoubtedly was, just as he trusted he had been himself; but he showed up poorly when it came to love-making. He was too old for his age; that was the trouble with Andrew. Now that he came to think of it, there was something uncompanionable in elderly people. It was surprising he had not noticed it before, but lately it had occurred to him forcibly. A brisk young fellow like Frank, a pretty girl like Jean—one felt more in touch with them. Perhaps they were a trifle on the juvenile side: the choicest, the most sympathetic period of life was undoubtedly that attained by—Mr. Walkingshaw jumped up, laid down his cigar, and started for the drawing-room. What a fine woman Madge was!

He spent a delightful hour in the ladies' society. The obliging widow was easily prevailed upon to gratify a passion he had lately developed for tuneful and romantic melody, and she thrummed through five waltzes and the whole of two comic operas, while he sat on the sofa holding Jean's hand and exchanging confidential smiles. Jean was in the seventh heaven of happiness; the widow enthusiastically approved of the symptoms; and the only critic present appeared to be his exemplary sister. She listened to the concert with a bleak face, and regarded the dalliance on the sofa out of a troubled and uncomprehending eye.

Aglow with sentiments, which from being mere amorphous ecstasies were rapidly developing into shapely visions of black eyes and well-nourished contours, Mr. Walkingshaw bade good-night to the ladies and settled himself comfortably in his easy-chair before a friendly fire and in company with a fragrant pipe. How delicious his tobacco tasted! Evidently this last tin must be of a superior quality. He resolved that he should insist on being supplied with the same high-class variety in future.

At this point his pleasant reverie was interrupted by the entrance of Frank, just returned from dining with a friend. His father greeted him genially.

"Well, my boy, help yourself to a drink and light your pipe."

Frank glanced at him suspiciously. He had never before been encouraged either to drink or to smoke; indeed, he had more than once complained that his father seemed to forget he was now a grown-up man. What his sudden cordiality meant he could not divine; but on general principles he feared it. This did not prevent him from accepting both overtures and sitting down on the other side of the fire. Mr. Walkingshaw asked him a few questions about how he had spent the evening, always with the same friendly air, till the young soldier began to suspect he had negotiated some peculiarly fortunate business transaction. He became emboldened to approach what he feared might prove a delicate subject.

"I'm thinking of running up to London for a week or two," he began.

"An excellent idea," said his parent. "It must be rather slow for you here."

Frank got more and more encouraged.

"The only trouble is, I find myself rather short of funds."

"How much do you want?"

The going was too smooth to last, thought Frank. He became cautious.

"Oh, a tenner or so, I suppose," he suggested.

"A tenner!" exclaimed his father.

"Say a fiver, then," said Frank hurriedly.

"A fiver for a week or two in London? My dear boy, you don't know how to do the thing at all. Your return ticket will cost you over three pounds; supposing one averages your dinners at ten shillings a night for a fortnight—that's seven pounds more; suppers, even if you supped alone" (here he winked upon his startled offspring), "will run you at least as much. Put railway and grub at thirty pounds—just to be safe. Then you'll be going to theaters and music-halls, and taking cabs, and having a week-end at Brighton—and the Lord knows what else. My hat, it will be a spree!"

With sparkling eyes and a beaming smile he leant forward in his chair and tapped his son upon the knee.

"I'll come with you, Frank."

"You!" gasped the poor youth.

"Yes," said Mr. Walkingshaw, apparently more to himself than to Frank, "that's the way to set about it!"

He beamed upon his son confidentially.

"I've got a splendid idea, and you're just the very chap to help me. I won't spoil sport, my boy, but I'll travel up with you—and, by Jove, we might stop at the same hotel, if that wouldn't embarrass you. Would it?"

"N—no," said Frank, "n—not at all."

"Just what we were needing—a little blow-out in London, eh?"

Frank gave a little nervous laugh.

"Do you really mean it?"

Mr. Walkingshaw was now standing in front of the fire, alternately rising on tiptoe and thumping down on his heels.

"Don't I just! When shall we start—to-morrow morning?"

"To-morrow! But I haven't done any packing."

"Well, no more have I. We'll just chuck in a few things and buy anything else we want in London. I need practically a new outfit myself. Can you introduce me to a good tailor?"

"Ye—es," stammered Frank.

"That's all settled, then."

Mr. Walkingshaw began to laugh mysteriously.

"I'd like to see Andrew's face when he learns I've gone!"

"But aren't you going to tell him?"

Mr. Walkingshaw's voice sank.

"Not a word to any of them, Frank! You put my things into your cab without any one noticing; I'll say I'm going to the office; and we'll meet at the station. I don't want to get talked about, you see."

It was reassuring to find that Mr. Walkingshaw still valued his reputation, even though the measures he took to preserve it were not excessively convincing.

"All right, then," said Frank; "I'd better go and pack now. Good-night."

"Good-night, my boy," his father answered fervently. "God bless you!"

The Cromarty Highlander had been through some nerve-testing experiences, but, as he went to his room, he realized that the severest ordeals often occur in civil life.

Meanwhile, his parent at a leisurely pace was following him upstairs when he perceived a light still burning in the drawing-room. He gently pushed the door open, and a smile of peculiar pleasure irradiated his rosy face. There, busy at the writing-table and quite alone, sat the sympathetic widow. He remembered how prettily she had answered a simple interjection once before.

"Hullo!" he warbled.

---

CHAPTER VII

The widow started and turned in her chair. This time she did not archly cap his greeting. Instead, her exclamation had a tincture of alarm. He was so very unlike his usual self.

"Writing a billet-doux?" he inquired, still smiling.

He softly closed the door behind him, and approached her with a kind of jaunty, springy gait that increased her perplexity. She loved to see him lively, but this smirking manner was really almost peculiar.

"May I sit at your feet, Madge?" he asked, and without waiting for an answer, drew up a footstool and planted himself so close to her knees that the sense of propriety felt by all fine women with any experience of life impelled her to withdraw them some three inches farther from his shoulder. At the same time she bent her head a very little forward and gently drew in her breath. The late Captain Dunbar had possessed in addition to the virtues of a dashing temperament, certain of its failings, and her cousin's demeanor decidedly reminded her of his conduct after particularly convivial evenings at the mess. But the test was reassuring. Her nose was keen, and she noticed nothing—absolutely nothing.

"What a beastly big barn of a room this is," he began.

She was at a loss quite what to answer. Could he mean this: he who prided himself on the becoming stateliness of his house?

"Oh, I think it is a very fine and—and—impressive room, Heriot," she answered guardedly.

"It's too big and gloomy for a widower. It makes one feel kind of lonely."

The widow smiled sweetly. She quite understood what he meant now. The reminiscence of the late Captain Dunbar faded away, and once more she was sympathy itself.

"Are you often lonely?" she inquired softly.

He looked up into her face with a curious hint of boyishness in his face.

"Not while you are here, Madge."

Again a species of divine instinct possessed Mr. Walkingshaw. Without permission asked or given, he took his fair cousin's hand and gently held it. At the same time a longing to be confidential invaded him. He had a really prime secret to share with her.

"I am going up to London to-morrow morning!" he announced.

It did not surprise her that business should take him up to town; it did that his eyes should twinkle at the prospect. She began to feel a trifle less sympathetic.

"Oh," she said, "why are you going?"

For a moment he hesitated. Could he venture to confide in her? The young and amorous Heriot said, "Of course! Such a divinity will be all sympathy." But the senior partner in Walkingshaw & Gilliflower emphatically retorted. "Never tell a woman what you don't want the whole town to know!" He was still old enough to obey the more prudent counselor.

"I'm going to see my old friend Colonel Munro."

Decidedly Mr. Walkingshaw was fast acquiring that quick adaptation to circumstances which is the hall-mark of youth. He had not thought of his old friend Charlie Munro for the last year or more, and here he was coming in most usefully just when he was wanted. Heriot recognized with a touch of awe his own unwonted fertility.

"Don't tell any one!" he added, and then immediately realized that at the same time he must be losing a little of that valuable discretion which had characterized the head of Walkingshaw & Gilliflower.

"My dear Heriot, this sounds suspicious."

He realized now the penalties for indiscretion.

"I am going to see him on particularly private business. We do not wish it to get talked about."

He thought he had recovered his old manner to a nicety, but what was his surprise when his cousin shook a well-manicured finger in his face, and cried—

"What a naughty boy you are getting! I wonder whether I ought to tell on you or not?"

This time he tried another of his ingenuous smiles.

"You wouldn't tell on me, Madge!"

"Oh, indeed! Why should I care about your reputation?"

Mr. Walkingshaw deliberately faced the situation. He had not meant to commit himself that evening—not, in fact, till he had enjoyed an untrammeled week in town; but he had placed his reputation in this charming lady's hands, and he realized he must obtain a receipt for it.

"Don't you care about me?" he inquired tenderly.

"What—what do you mean, Heriot?" she faltered.

"You are everything to me," he answered, and looking into her black eyes, inwardly decided that this expressed very little more than the precise truth.

---

It was a very few minutes after this that he found himself seated very close to the sympathetic widow's side, with one arm encircling a considerable segment of what had been a remarkably trim waist, and the other hand toying with a collection of ruby and amethyst rings.

"I do hope I shan't disappoint you, Heriot," she murmured.

"No fear of that, my dear," said he, pinching one of her plump fingers.

"It will be rather a Darby and Joan marriage, of course," she smiled.

"Will it?" replied Heriot, with a glint out of the corner of his eye that reminded her forcibly of the late Captain Dunbar.

"Oh, Heriot!" she expostulated. "Remember you're the father of a grown-up family."

"Well," he replied, with amorous facetiousness, "what man has done, man can do."

The lady endeavored gently to withdraw her hand, but he held it firmly.

"Will it be a long engagement?" she asked, with a colder smile.

"By Jove, not very!" he whispered riotously.

She felt like one of those intelligent persons who pull the triggers of supposititiously unloaded guns. By a supreme effort she mastered her emotion and remarked—

"I wonder what your family will say."

He kissed her demonstratively and cried—

"My family be hanged! I'm not going to tell them yet."

"When will you?" she asked, disengaging herself with a difficulty that impressed her still further.

"Time enough when I get back from London."

The widow was not altogether unsophisticated. This blend of abandonment and secrecy impressed her unfavorably. She had known of more than one ballroom proposal where the gentleman was just sufficiently master of his emotions to stipulate for silence till he had departed on a twelvemonth's furlough.

"How soon are you coming back?" she inquired.

"Week or two," he answered airily.

"A week or two to see Colonel Munro!"

"Intricate business," he answered her, with a fresh salute.

"Poor old Charles Munro is a kind of relation of mine," she observed.

He eyed her with more surprise than passion.

"Oh! I didn't know that."

"I haven't written to him for years. I think I must send him a letter this week."

Mr. Walkingshaw realized that he was marrying brains as well as beauty. He also realized that Colonel Munro was now part of his London programme. However, on second thoughts, Charlie Munro was a dear old fellow, and very likely he'd have been looking him up in any case. His spirits bounded up again. In fact, why should they ever sink with such a fair creature by his side?

"Do, darling," he whispered.

She surrendered herself to his affection and sighed happily. Why should she feel disturbed with one of the most respectable of Writers to the Signet pledged to devote his declining years to her consolation?

"I trust you, Heriot," she murmured.

"My little duck!" he answered tenderly.

---

At twelve o'clock next morning the London express thundered on to the bridge across the Solway. Mr. Walkingshaw looked up at his son.

"We're out of Scotland now," he said, with a sigh of reminiscent ardor. "Home and beauty are far behind us, Frank."

Then in a different key he added—

"It is curious that my spirits should keep rising."

From which it appeared that he had grown young enough to realize that though lunch may be over, there is always dinner to look forward to.

---

[Pg 143-144]