The Featherstones were a remarkable family--remarkable in their unparalleled irresponsibility. They had a house in Grosvenor Place and another in Devonshire. The latter, like the Featherstones, was gorgeous in its external aspect, but thoroughly unstable in its foundations. The instability of Lord Featherstone was of a financial character. He, like the rest of his family, believed in giving a wide berth to such sordid considerations as money. Whenever he wanted money he called in the family solicitor, who promptly raised another mortgage on something. Featherstone was so used to signing his name on pieces of paper that custom grew into habit. Lady Featherstone still gave expensive house parties, and the Honorable Angela acted as though all the wealth of the Indies was behind those magic signatures of papa. Young Claude, with a liberal allowance per annum, managed to wring a few thousands overdraft from his banker by dint of a plausible tongue and a charm of manner. When the crash came and Featherstone was forced to face realities, the house was like a mortuary. "But surely you can raise the wind, my dear Ayscough?" The aged solicitor, an intimate friend of the family, shook his head. "There's Little Badholme." "Mortgaged to the last penny. It was never worth the ten thousand they advanced." Featherstone paced up and down and blew rings of smoke into the air. "We shall have to economize, my dear Ayscough. We shall have to economize." He had said that so many times before, that like the production of his autograph it had become a habit. Ayscough, seeing Carey Street looming in the distance, was unusually glum. Economy was scarcely an antidote at this stage, for mortgagees were threatening foreclosure. "I rely upon you, Ayscough. I rely on you absolutely." Ayscough looked blank. It was no use trying to explain to Featherstone the exact state of the family's finance. Generations of Featherstones had eaten well into the coffers. Prodigality was their outstanding characteristic. "If I might make a suggestion----" Featherstone was in the mood to consider the wildest suggestion. He had none of his own. "There is--er--Miss Angela." "There is, Ayscough. Precisely--there is." Then he suddenly halted and looked at the lawyer. "By Jove! I see your point. But it won't avail us. Angela is a queer girl. She has distinct aversions to marriage." "But if she knew that a wealthy--er--fortunate marriage would save you and Lady Featherstone a certain amount of anxiety----?" "I doubt it. Besides, wealthy husbands are not so easily picked up. There are a dozen girls after every man of ample means. No, I think we may discard that possibility. Think it over, my dear Ayscough. I leave it entirely in your hands." Ayscough had been thinking it over for the last three years. He went away with visions of the fall of the house of Featherstone at no very distant date.