“I know it; I know it. From the day I quarrelled with my uncle, I felt that my chance was gone for ever. It was only right that you should be made the heir, vice Kester in disgrace. If there had been no such person as you in existence, the property would have been left either to your brother or to Uncle Lionel. If they had both been dead, Park Newton would have gone to some hospital or asylum. In no case would a single shilling have ever come to me.” Kester spoke with exceeding bitterness, and Lionel could not wonder at it. But his gloom did not last more than a minute or two. He shook it off lightly. “Che sarà, sarà,” he said, with a shrug and a laugh. Then he rose, and got his cigar-case. “Let us have a smoke,” he said. “After all, life in Bohemia is very jolly. It is pleasant to live by one’s wits at the expense of other people who have none. Fools fortunately abound in this world; while they are plentiful, men of brains need never starve.” This was said with a sort of defiant cynicism that it pained Lionel to hear. “Kester,” he said, “something was told me the other day that I never heard of before; something that affects you.” “Something that affects me! What was it?” His tone was abrupt and full of suspicion. “Mr. Wharton, the vicar of Duxley, told me that when my grandfather lay dying, he expressed a wish that if Uncle Arthur should die without children, the estate should come to me; but that an allowance of three thousand a year should be paid out of it to you as long as you lived.” “I have heard my uncle say many a time that my grandfather was in his dotage for months before he died,” said Kester, contemptuously. “Whether he was in his dotage or no, there is no doubt that such a wish was expressed by him. Strangely enough, his wish has come true as regards myself: why should it not come true in your case also?” “Lionel Dering, what is it that you mean?” “Simply this: Three thousand a year out of the Park Newton property belongs morally to you, and——” “And you want to settle that sum on me?” “I do.” “You propose, in all seriousness, to give me, Kester St. George, three thousand a year out of your income of eleven thousand?” “In all seriousness, that is what I propose to do.” Kester’s face flushed deeply. He got up, walked across the room, and stood looking out of the window for two or three minutes. “No! a thousand times no!” he exclaimed at last with startling abruptness. “I cannot accept your offer.” “Is not the sum large enough?” asked Lionel. “Not one penny piece, Lionel Dering, will I ever accept at your hands!” “But why not? What is your objection?” “Do not ask me. I would not tell you if I could. Let it suffice that my objection is insuperable and—let us never talk about this again.” He rang the bell violently. “Pierre, cognac and seltzer. Do you do anything in the racing line?” asked Kester in his lightest tone as Pierre left the room.