And yet he was touched, as nobody now would be in a case of that sort, perhaps by the real grandeur of that old man in devoting himself (according to his lights) to the stars that might come after him. Of these the brightest now broke in; and the dreamer’s peace was done for. What man has not his own queer little turns? Sir Roland knew quite well the step at the door--for Hilary’s walk was beyond mistake; yet what did he do but spread hands on his forehead, and to the utmost of all his ability--sleep? Hilary looked at his male parent with affectionate sagacity. He had some little doubts about his being asleep, or, at any rate, quite so heartily as so good a man had a right to repose. Therefore, instead of withdrawing, he spoke. “My dear father, I hope you are well. I am sorry to disturb you, but--how do you do, sir; how do you do?” The schoolboy’s rude answer to this kind inquiry--“None the better for seeing you”--passed through Hilary’s mind, at least, if it did not enter his father’s. However, they saluted each other as warmly as can be expected reasonably of a British father and a British son; and then they gazed at one another, as if it was the first time either had enjoyed that privilege. “Hilary, I think you are grown,” Sir Roland said, to break the silence, and save his lips from the curve of a yawn. “It is time for you to give up growing.” “I gave it up, sir, two years ago; if the standard measures of the realm are correct. But perhaps you refer to something better than material increase. If so, sir, I am pleased that you think so.” “Of course you are,” his father answered; “you would have grown out of yourself, to have grown out of pleasant self-complacency. How did you leave Mr. Malahide? Very well? Ah, I am glad to hear it. The law is the healthiest of professions; and that your countenance vouches. But such a colour requires food after fifty miles of travelling. We shall not dine for an hour and a half. Ring the bell, and I will order something while you go and see your grandmother.” “No, thank you, sir. If you can spare the time, I should like to have a little talk with you. It is that which has brought me down from London, in this rather unceremonious way.” “Spare me apologies, Hilary, because I am so used to this. It is a great pleasure to see you, of course, especially when you look so well. Quite as if there was no such thing as money--which happens to you continually, and is your panacea for moneyed cares. But would not the usual form have done--a large sheet of paper (with tenpence to pay), and, ‘My dear father, I have no ready cash--your dutiful son, H. L.’?” “No, my dear father,” said Hilary, laughing in recognition of his favourite form; “it is a much more important affair this time. Money, of course, I have none; but still, I look upon that as nothing. You cannot say I ever show any doubt as to your liberality.”