“For some time past your son, acting, no doubt, on instructions from his father, has been gradually paving the way for something of this kind. There have been no letters from him for five weeks, and the last three or four that he sent were not more than as many lines each. No doubt he will feel grateful at being released from an engagement that had become odious to him; and on Miss Culpepper’s side the release will be an equally happy one. She had learned long ago to estimate at his true value the man to whom she had so rashly pledged her hand. She had found out, to her bitter cost, that she had promised herself to a person who had neither the instincts nor the education of a gentleman—to an individual, in fact, who was little better than a common boor.” This last thrust touched the banker to the quick. His face flushed deeply. He crossed the room and called down an India-rubber tube: “What is the amount of Mr. Culpepper’s balance?” Presently came the answer: “Two eighty eleven five.” “Two hundred and eighty pounds, eleven shillings, and five pence,” said Mr. Cope, with a sneer. “May I ask, sir, that you will take immediate steps for having this magnificent balance transferred to some other establishment.” “I shall take my own time about doing that,” said Mr. Culpepper. “What a pity that your new mansion was not finished in time—quite a castle it was to have been, was it not? A mortgage of five or six thousand could have been a matter of no difficulty then, you know. If I recollect rightly, all the furniture and decorations were to have come from London. Nothing in Duxley would have been good enough. I merely echo your own words.” The Squire winced. “I am rightly served,” he muttered to himself. “What can one expect from a man who swept out an office and cleaned his master’s shoes?” He rose to go. For all his bitterness, there was a little pathetic feeling at work in his heart. “So ends a friendship of twenty years,” was his thought. “Goodbye, Cope,” he said aloud as he moved towards the door. The banker, standing with his back to the fire, and looking straight at the opposite wall, neither stirred nor spoke, nor so much as turned his head to take a last look at his old friend. And so, without another word, the Squire passed out. A bleak north wind was blowing as the Squire stepped into the street. He paused for a moment to button his coat more closely around him. As he did so, a poor ragged wretch passed trembling by without saying a word. The Squire called the man back and gave him a shilling. “My plight may be bad enough, but his is a thousand times worse,” he said to himself as he walked down the street.