"There's nothing to tell, Alice," said Robert with a forced laugh, rising from his chair; "you've made a pretty story for yourself, nurse, but I'm too old now to be amused at it even, much less to think of taking one of the characters. I'm a little overdone with business, that's all." "Is it?" said the old woman shortly. "Well,--if it's business, that's all right. But it's the first time since ever I've been connected with the house of Streightley and Son, and that's nigh fifty year, that I heard it was necessary to forward the business of the house, or to captivate the brokers and the shipping-agents and that like, by dressing oneself up in fal-lal clothes, and by dancing attendance at opera and play houses (I found the papers of them in your pockets) until all hours in the morning. And I'm thinking that if that is the way, your father made but a poor hand at it, Master Robert; and it's a great mercy that he didn't ruin the whole concern." And so saying, and with a sniff of great meaning, the old lady retired from the room. By no means reassured or made more comfortable even by this short interview--for he was a nervous man in some things and very much disliked what he called "being upset"--Robert Streightley pushed the breakfast things away from him, and started off for town. He had dropped the omnibus long since, and took a cab as a matter of course; and as he journeyed along he could not help contrasting the splendour of the house he had yesterday visited with the meanness of that one which he had just left. Both were his own, and both were to a certain extent typical of his life: in the latter with frugal commonplace people his money had been made; in the former with one bright being it should be spent. Yes; he had had enough of this daily grind of business, this sordid strife; and he had determined that henceforth--if his hopes were realised--he would live a different life. If his hopes were realised? what forbade their realisation? This man,--this Gordon Frere, was younger it is true, better-looking, more of a "lady's man" than he; but he himself was not so old, not so hideous, not so--Ah! good God! What a fool he was for arguing the question in this way, even to himself! He felt that he loved this girl, and that on that deep love and earnest devotion alone must he rely for the success of his suit. He found Mr. Guyon awaiting him in the dining-room, with the _Morning Post_ on the very verge of the table; and a large blotting-book, a portentous inkstand, and a perfect armoury of steel pens close in front of him. The flavour of Turkish tobacco hung round the apartment, and a cut-glass goblet containing the remains of a draught that looked suspiciously like brandy and soda-water stood on the velvet mantelpiece. Mr. Guyon himself, dressed in the loose lounging jacket and the Turkish trousers, lay on the sofa with the butt-end of a cigarette in his mouth, and extended his hand to his friend in cordial greeting.