“Not another farthing, Tom. Not another farthing.”

“But my dear father—”

“But me no buts, Tom, as the man says in the playbook. You have an ample allowance. I never object to a hundred or two in advance to pay your club subscriptions, or for any other legitimate purpose. But extravagance like yours means vice, and vice I never will encourage.”

Lord Lundy shook his grey head at his son, heaved a sigh, felt in the left-hand pocket of his vest, missed something, heaved another sigh, and became absorbed in the Report with which he had been engrossed when his son entered the library.

“I only want a paltry two hundred,” pleaded Tom, not by any means willing to give up without a struggle.

His father once more looked up from his statistics, and without altering his tone replied,—

“Harkye, Tom. I have said my say. You know the position which I hold as the patron of religious and philanthropic societies. You are aware of the repute which I bear. With your proceedings, and those of your associates, rumour is busy. Such rumours reflect upon me. Common decency should suggest to you that I am the last person in the world to whom you should apply for fresh means wherewith to procure fresh indulgence.”

“Indeed, sir—”

“Enough, Tom. I am busy. Good-morning.”

It was useless to argue further. The Hon. Tom Foote, with downcast countenance, withdrew; reflected that he must once more have recourse to his friends, Shadrach, Mesech, and Abednego in Throgmorton Street; and inwardly apostrophised his stern parent as Old Father Adamant.

When Tom left the library Lord Lundy rang the bell. When the menial entered his lordship was still feeling in the left-hand pocket of his vest.

“Oh, James,” he said, “tell my man to look for the snuff-box I usually carry. Must have dropped it somewhere.”

James bowed and departed on his mission.

Meanwhile Tom, descending into Grosvenor Square, hailed a passing hansom; but when the driver pulled up by the kerb he was undecided in what direction to drive.

“Shall I go to the Raleigh and consult Bruiser, or shall I go direct to old Abednego, or shall I see Dot and explain matters?” This to himself. Then, suddenly making up his mind to see Dot, he gave his cabman an address in the vicinity of the Regent’s Park, and abandoned himself to his fate.

To his great delight, and, indeed, surprise, he found Dot in the very best of tempers. Her little villa was surrounded by a wall which protected it from the vulgar stare of the passer-by, and Tom found her in her breakfast-room arranging flowers and humming an air out of Diana, a burlesque which she was at that time engaged in illustrating at the Mausoleum Theatre. She was arrayed in a morning-gown of light-blue, trimmed with some fluffy stuff strangely suggestive of powder-puffs. She received her guest with considerable warmth; asked her “poor old boy” why he looked so “glum,” and when in reply he admitted that he had been unable to obtain the trifling sum which she had requested, burst out laughing, and said,—

“Don’t look so solemn, Dolly,”—’twas her pet name for him. “I shall be able to do without it for the present. A wealthy connection of mine has just died leaving me sufficient for all immediate wants. And now what’s the news?”

Tom having mentally blessed the rich and opportune relative, and having regretted aloud that any person should have deprived him of the coveted opportunity of playing the part of relieving officer, declared that there was no news.

He then began to look about the room. This is a habit which most men have in visiting rooms where others, perchance, may be received—others that they know not of. There is a suspicion of the very furniture. A jealousy of articles left behind. Great Heavens! what heart-burnings have been caused by the discovery of a strange cigar-case or a ring with an unfamiliar monogram.

Tom, strolling up to the mantel-piece while chatting to Dot, or listening to her artless prattle, perceived, nestling between the ormolu timepiece and a vase of early primroses, a snuff-box. He took it up and involuntarily ejaculated,—

“Halloa!”

Dot looked up, and observing the object of his curiosity, exclaimed,—

“Oh, put that down, it—it’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” said Tom. “It’s a snuff-box. Come, where did you get it?”

Dot pouted. She must not be cross-examined. It was an insult to her. Did Dolly doubt her?

But Dolly was in perfect temper. He declared himself as devoid of doubt as a minor prophet, and having calmed the rising emotions of the lady, said, with the greatest sang-froid,—

“Lend me the snuff-box till to-morrow at this hour, and I’ll bring you the two hundred. Yes, and a fifty into the bargain.”“Only a loan, mind,” stipulated the girl, who, like most of her charming sex, had a mind irrevocably fixed on the main chance.

“Of course—only a loan,” replied the elated Tom; “d’ye think I’m going to turn snuff-taker?”

Whether Tom’s logic or the hope of Tom’s money mollified Miss Dot, it is certain that when, an hour after, he left Laburnum Villa, Regent’s Park, N.W., he had the snuff-box in his pocket.

It was from Lady Lundy that his lordship had imbibed his religion and his philanthropy. She was, indeed, a marvellous woman, and had been known on at least one occasion to take the chair from which indisposition had driven her husband. If ever a nobleman could have been said to be hen-pecked, that devoted aristocrat was Lord Lundy. And Tom, although more audacious in his expressions of defiance, also stood in considerable awe of his mother. When on the evening of the day during which all the events of this unvarnished tale arrived, Tom sat down to dinner, both his father and his mother were surprised at the flow of his animal spirits, the redundancy of his anecdotes, and the impudent way in which he relegated to some future occasion all discussion concerning Outcast London, or the heathen living in dark places of the earth.

Being a Christian household, certain Christian customs were observed in the Lundy establishment; so when Lady Lundy left the room her husband and her son remained to discuss a glass of claret.

“You seem in excellent spirits to-night, my boy,” said the father. And the remark was not uncalled for; because when last father and son had met, the latter was extremely downcast.

“Pretty well, thank you,” replied the youth.

“And to what may I attribute this change?”

“I’ve taken your advice, sir, and have commenced to do something useful. I have gone into trade.”

“God bless my soul! Trade!”

“Yes. I’m dealing in articles—if I may call them so—of virtue.”

“You’re joking.”

“Never more serious, I assure you. To prove it I will sell you something.”

“What?”“A snuff-box.”

The philanthropist laughed.

“And so it is you who have been hiding my favourite box. Hand it over this minute, you rascal.”

But Tom shook his head.

“No; this can’t be yours. This is a snuff-box with a history. It belonged, my dear father, to a great philanthropist; and it was discovered in a breakfast-room in the Regent’s Park.”

At this Tom exhibited the pretty receptacle, saying,—

“How much do you say for this highly authenticated heirloom?”

“The two hundred you asked for this morning, Tom,” replied the father, with more coolness than might reasonably been expected under the circumstances.

“Not enough,” said the son.

“Three hundred—five hundred!” gasped the philanthropist.

“Say a thousand,” insinuated Tom.

“I’ll be d—d if I do!” replied the philanthropist, with the utmost decision.

“Then,” said Tom, rising, “I’ll take it to her ladyship, and see what she’ll give me for it—and for its story.”

“Tom, sit down, I command you. Not a word of this. The money is yours.”

How Tom managed with Dot about retaining the snuff-box history does not say. But it has been noticed with considerable alarm that Tom has now a greater influence over Lord Lundy than ever was obtained even by her ladyship.