An agent had remitted him spasmodically his somewhat shrunken rents; and recently he had visited Kilmoran Castle, the home of his ancestors, a tumbledown old place six miles from a station, with a defective roof, and a pervading odour of soot and dry rot. He scarcely knew a soul in the neighbourhood: undoubtedly there was good hunting to be had of a somewhat rough-and-ready description that would carry him through the dark winter days; but what of the _evenings_ at home? He recalled the cavernous dining-room, with black horsehair and mahogany furniture, the heavy flock paper, the narrow windows, the glowering family portraits, and, above all, the grim sarcophagus under the sideboard that seemed to await, not the plate, but a corpse! whilst the drawing-room, which had been closed for fifty years, was a ghostly apartment, given over to dust and mice, who played weird tunes among the wires of the ancient Broadwood piano. Ulick Doran shivered as he pictured the dim flagged passages, the damp, desolate bedrooms. If he were to live at Kilmoran alone, he would undoubtedly take to drink or cut his throat! The other alternative was London and a bedroom near his club, where he would see the same faces, hear the same arguments, walk the same streets--every day. Oh, he would soon come to the end of that! This great city had no attractions for him. As he stood gazing out on the streaming rain and leaden clouds he was mentally contrasting Pall Mall with the “eye of his heart”--the Punjaub--and wishing he were back under the deep blue sky, with the first nip of the cold weather in the air, and his new Australian thoroughbred between his knees. Just at this instant the door opened and a brisk little bald man, with a fair moustache and cheery eye, entered the room. He was Major Sutton--or Johnny Sutton, as his friends called him--late of Holland’s Horse, a comrade who had retired, married, and apparently lived happy ever after. “I say, old man,” he began, “what are you doing here all by yourself--eh? What’s the matter? Down on your luck?” “Not much luck to be down on, as far as I know,” growled the other, turning from the window and sinking into a capacious chair. “Of course it’s just raw to you at present; you miss the old regiment, and, by George! they miss you,” said Johnny Sutton, opening his cigar-case. “We all have a sort of lost, end-of-all-things feeling, when we first come home, but we get over it in time and make a fresh start.” “That’s all right for the young ’uns, Johnny, but a man of fifty-two has gone over most of the course.” “Nonsense, Pat. I see you are affected by this beastly weather, and your liver--a man of fifty is in his prime! Why, I’m fifty myself, and can walk and shoot with the best.” “You were always a great shikari, Johnny.” “For that matter, so were you.” “Well, there’s an end of all that now.” “Why so? Haven’t you shooting on your place in Ireland?”