At last everybody was gone, even the musicians, the negroes--everybody. Skelton stood in the porch watching the rosy dawn over the delicious landscape, his face sombre, his whole air one of tension. His fury against Bulstrode had partly abated. On the contrary, a feeling of cynical pleasure at the way he would confute him took its place. So, the heedless old vagabond had gone over to Newington with that cock-and-bull story of a fortune whenever he, Skelton, was married or buried; and Mrs. Blair and her husband had been foolish enough to believe him. Well, they would find out their mistake in short order. Skelton went straight to the library. Bulstrode was still there, sitting in a great chair leaning heavily forward. The daylight had begun to penetrate through the heavy curtains, and the candles were spluttering in their sockets. The first shock over, Bulstrode had got back some of his courage. Skelton, with an inscrutable smile on his face, walked up to him. Never was there a greater contrast between two men--one, a thoroughbred from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, accustomed to the habit of command; the other, bourgeois all over, and only asserting himself by an effort. Bulstrode, meaning to show that he was not cowed, began, like a vulgarian, to be violent. “Look here, Skelton,” he began aggressively, “it’s done, and there’s no use talking. But recollect that I’m Lewis Pryor’s guardian--recollect--I--er--” Here Bulstrode began to flounder. “I recollect it all,” answered Skelton contemptuously; “and I recollect, too, that you are still half drunk. When you are sober--” “Sober,” said poor Bulstrode with something like a groan of despair. “When I’m sober I’m the most miserable, contemptible man on God’s earth. When I’m sober you can do anything with me. I’m sober now, I’m afraid.” He was grotesque even in his deepest emotions. Skelton’s quick eye had caught sight of Lewis Pryor lying asleep on the sofa. He went towards him and drew back tenderly the curtains that half enveloped him. The boy was sleeping the sleep of youth and health, a slight flush upon his dark cheek, his hair tumbled over his handsome head, one arm thrown off; there was something wonderfully attractive in his boyish beauty.