Like many other business men, he relieved the monotony of his daily work by always keeping two or three hobbies in hand. The mania for collecting had always been encouraged at Rowan Tree House, and just now botany was his keenest delight. It was even perhaps absorbing too much of his time, and Cecil used laughingly to tell him that he loved it more than all the men and women in the world put together. He was contentedly mounting specimens on the night of his return, when James Horner looked in, the prospective legacy making him more than ever fussy and pompous. “Ah, so you have come: that’s all right!” he exclaimed. “I had hoped you would have come round to us. However, no matter; I don’t know that there is anything special to say, and of course this sad news has upset my wife very much.” “Ah,” said Roy, somewhat skeptical in his heart of hearts about the depth of her grief. “We were sorry to hear about it.” “We go down the first thing to-morrow,” said James Horner, “and shall, of course, stay on. They say there is no hope of recovery.” “What do you think of that?” said Roy, pointing to a very minute flower which he had just mounted. “It is the first time it has ever been found in England.” “H’m, is it really?” said James Horner, regarding it with that would-be interested air, that bored perplexity, which Roy took a wicked delight in calling forth. “Well, you know, I don’t understand,” he added, “how a practical man like you can take an interest in such trumpery bits of things. What are your flowers worth when you’ve done them? Now, if you took to collecting autographs, there’d be some sense in that, for I understand that a fine collection of autographs fetches a good round sum in the market.” “That would only involve more desk-work,” said Roy, laughing. “Writing to ask for them would bore me as much as writing in reply must bore the poor celebrities.” “By the by,” said Mr. Horner, “I have just remembered to tell you that provoking fellow, Falck, never turned up to-day. He never even had the grace to send word that he wasn’t coming.” “Of course he must be ill,” said Roy, looking disturbed. “He is the last fellow to stay away if he could possibly keep up. We all thought him looking ill before he left.” “I don’t know about illness,” said James Horner, putting on his hat; “but he certainly has the worst temper I’ve ever come across. It was extremely awkward without him to-day, for already we are short of hands.” “There can hardly be much doing,” said Roy. “London looks like a desert. However, of course I’ll look up Falck. I dare say he’ll be all right again by to-morrow.”