On a fine morning, two days after Miss Lambert's visit to Mr Hancock, Mr Bevan entered his sitting-room in the "Albany" dressed for going out. He wore a tea rose in his buttonhole, and Strutt, who followed his master, bore in his hands a glossy silk hat far more carefully than if it had been a baby.

A most comfortably furnished and tastefully upholstered room was this in which Charles Bevan smoked his one cigar and drank his one whisky and seltzer before retiring to bed each night; everything spoke of an orderly and well-regulated mind; of books there were few in bindings sedate as their subject matter, and they had the air of prisoners rarely released from the narrow cases that contained them. On the walls hung a series of Gillray's engravings depicting "the flagitious absurdities of the French during their occupation of Egypt." On the table reposed the Field, the Times, and the Spectator (uncut).

"But what the deuce can he want?" said Charles, who was holding an open letter in his hand. It was a letter from the family lawyer asking his attendance in Southampton Row at his earliest convenience.

"Maybe," said Strutt, blowing away a speck of dust that had dared to settle on the hat, "Maybe, sir, it's about the lawsuit."

Bevan put the letter in his pocket, took his hat and stick from the faithful Strutt and departed.

He made for "Brooks'."

Mr Bevan patronised "Brooks'" and the "Reform."

In the deserted smoking-room of "Brooks'" he sat down to write some letters, and here followeth the correspondence of a modern Chesterfield.

"To J. Holdsworth,
Hay Street, Pimlico.

"Sir,—The thing you sent for my inspection yesterday is no use. I'm not anxious to buy camels. Please do not trouble any more in the matter. I wasted half an hour over this yesterday and my time is valuable if the time of your groom is not.—Yours truly,

"C. M. Bevan."

"To Mrs Neurapath,
Secretary to Neurapath's Home for
Lost and Starving Cats, Bermondsey.

"Madam,—In answer to your third demand for a contribution to your funds, I write to tell you that it is my fixed rule never to contribute to private charities.—Yours, etc.,

"C. M. Bevan."

"To Messrs Teitz;
Breeches Makers, Oxford Street.

"Sir,—Please send your foreman to see me in the 'Albany' to-morrow at ten A.M. The breeches don't fit.—Yours, etc.,

"C. M. Bevan."

"To Miss Pamela Pursehouse,
The Roost, Rookhurst, Kent.

"My Dearest Pam,—Just a line scribbled in a hurry to say I will be down in a few days. I am writing this at 'Brooks''. It's a beautiful morning, but I expect it will be a scorching day, like yesterday, it's always the way with this beastly climate, one is either scorched, or frozen, or drowned. Just as I am writing this, old Sir John Blundell has come into the room, he's the most terrible bore, mad on roses and can't talk of anything else, he's fidgetting about behind me trying to attract my attention, so I have to keep on writing and pretending not to see him. I'm sorry the buff Orpington cock is dead, was he the one who took the first prize? I'll get you another if you let me know where to send. I think there are some buff Orpingtons at Highshot but am not sure, I don't take any interest in hens—only of course in yours. They say hen-farming pays on a big scale, but I don't see where the profit can come in. Thank goodness, that old fool Blundell has just gone out—now I must stop,—With love, ever yours (etc., etc.),

"Charley."

The author of this modern Englishman's love letter, having stamped and deposited his correspondence in the club letter-box, entered the hansom which had been called for him, and proceeded to his solicitor, James Hancock, of the firm of Hancock & Hancock, Southampton Row.

When Bevan was shown in, Mr Hancock was seated at his desk table, writing a letter with a quill pen. He tossed his spectacles up on his forehead and held out his hand.

"I am sorry to have put you to the inconvenience of calling," said he, crossing his legs, and playing with a paper knife, "but the fact is, I have received a communication from the other side, who seem anxious to bring this affair to a conclusion."

"Oh, do they?" said Charles Bevan.

"The fact is," continued the elder gentleman slapping his knee with the flat of the paper knife as he spoke, "the fact is, Mr George Lambert is in very great financial straits, and if the truth were known, I verily believe the truth would be that he is quite insolvent."

Charles made no reply.

"But he will go on fighting the case, unless we can come to terms, even though he has to borrow money for the purpose, for he is a very litigious man this Mr George Lambert, a very litigious man!"

"Well, let him fight," cried Charles; "I ask nothing better."

"Still," said the old lawyer, "I thought it better to lay before you the suggestion that has come from the other side, and which is simply this——" He paused, drew a tortoiseshell snuff-box from his pocket, and took a furious pinch of snuff. "Which is simply this, that each party pay their own costs, and that the fishing rights be shared equally. We beat them in the Queen's Bench, but when the matter comes before the Court of Appeal, who knows but——"

"Pay what?" cried Charles Bevan. "Pay my own costs after having fought so long, and nearly beaten this pirate, this poacher! Show me the letter containing this proposal, this infamous suggestion."

"Dear me, dear me, my dear sir, pray do not take the matter so crookedly," cried the man of law lowering his spectacles and beginning to mend a quill pen in an irritable manner. "There is nothing infamous in this proposal, and indeed it reached me not through the mediumship of a letter, but of a young lady. Mr George Lambert's daughter called upon me in person, a most—er—charming young lady. She gave me to understand from her conversation—her most artless conversation—that her unfortunate father is on the brink, the verge, I may say the verge of ruin. But he himself does not see it, pig-headed man that he is. In fact she, the young lady herself, does not seem to see it. Dear me, dear me, their condition makes me shudder."

"When did she call?" asked Bevan.

"Two days ago," blurted out the old lawyer splitting the quill and nearly cutting his finger with the penknife.

"Why was I not informed sooner of this disgraceful proposition," demanded Bevan.

"I declare I have been so busy——" said the other.

"Well, tell George Lambert, I will fight as long as I have teeth to fight with, and if I lose the action I'll break him anyhow," foamed Charles who was now in the old-fashioned port-wine temper, which was an heirloom in the Bevan family. "I'll buy up his mortgages and foreclose, tell his wretched daughter——"

"Mr Bevan," suddenly interposed the lawyer, "Miss Fanny Lambert is a most charming lady for whom I have a deep respect—I may say a very deep respect—the suggestion came from her informally. I doubt indeed if Mr George Lambert would listen to any proposals for an amicable settlement, he declares you have treated him, to use his expression—er—not as one gentleman should treat another."

Charles turned livid.

"Where does this Lambert live now?"

"At present he resides I believe, at his town house 'The Laurels,' Highgate——. Why! Mr Bevan——"

Charles had risen.

"He said I was not a gentleman, did he? and you listened to him, I suppose, and agreed with him, and you—no matter, I'll be my own solicitor, I'll go and see him, and tell him he ought to be ashamed of tampering with my business people through the medium of his daughter. Yes, we'll see—'The Laurels' Highgate."

"Mr Bevan, Mr Bevan!" cried old James Hancock in despair.

But Mr Bevan was gone, strutting out like an enraged turkey-cock through the outer office.

"I am afraid I have but made matters worse, I am afraid I have but made matters worse," moaned the peace-loving Mr Hancock, rubbing his shrivelled hands together in an agony of discomfiture, whilst Charles Bevan hailed a cab outside, determined to have it out man to man with this cousin who had dared to say that a Bevan had behaved in a dishonourable manner.