“Yes,” murmured he, with a mournful sigh, as Mr. Graham-Shute filled his proffered glass for him, “some are born lucky, and some unlucky, there’s no denying that. Now to see all of us three together, Gilbert Wryde, our friend John there, and your humble servant, I don’t think anybody could have foretold how we were going to end. You might have known that Wryde would get on, perhaps--he was a clever fellow, with a head on his shoulders--but take old John and me, now! Not that I’m saying John hasn’t got a head on his shoulders--he’s proved it, we’ll all admit; but he didn’t bear his head so bravely in those days, didn’t dear old John, when he was down on his luck out in Melbourne. Why, many’s the time I’ve said to him, ‘Pluck up, old chap, there’ll be piping times for us yet,’ and the piping times have come sure enough, haven’t they, dear old chap?” As each mention of his host’s name grew more familiar, and more affectionate than the last, the scowl on John Bradfield’s face grew blacker, and the mischievous twinkle in Mr. Graham-Shute’s eyes grew more evident. Even Donald began to look from one to the other, and to say to himself, with the innocent enjoyment of sport peculiar to youth, that there “would be a jolly shindy presently.” The first thunder-clap came from Mr. Bradfield, who suggested at an unusually early stage of proceedings, an adjournment to the drawing-room. But the period of Alfred Marrable’s modest reticence was over, and he protested, with indecorous loudness: “No--no, dear old chap, not yet. Just when we’re beginning to enjoy ourselves!” He was not in a condition to observe that this was by no means the case with all of them. “Let’s be happy while we can, and let’s get thoroughly warmed before we have to meet Old Mother Iceberg again!” added Marrable, with a chuckle, believing himself to be uttering a witticism which the company would fully appreciate, and forgetting, poor man, the relationship in which “Old Mother Iceberg” stood to two of them. A slight pause followed this speech; but Marrable was too happy in the sound of his own voice again to remain long silent. “Yes, as I was saying,” he pursued, shaking his head sagely, and wondering what it was that made the nuts slip through the crackers instead of letting themselves be cracked in the orthodox manner, “some are born lucky, and some of us aren’t. Here’s John, with an income like a prince’s, and not a chick or child to leave it to, while I’m struggling along, picking up a pound where I can, as I can, and with three other mouths to fill beside my own. By-the-bye, John,” and he suddenly looked up and spoke in a brighter tone under the influence of a brand new idea, “what a precious lucky chap that young son of Gilbert Wryde’s is, to come into a big fortune like his father’s without having to do a stroke of work for it.”