"I wish I’d seen that," said Williams, simply. "I like seeing fights!" They spent a happy evening together and talked of Bob. Austin was great upon Bob. And so was Gordon. Austin told them all about the dogs. Goby spoke about the spavined pony he had bought. Gordon told them how Bob had borrowed a hundred pounds of him to be put into something. "I owe him fifty thousand pounds, at least," said Gordon. "The boy is a financier. I wish I had a boy like Bob." And just then Carew walked into the room. He looked ill, but was as handsome as paint. Williams jumped to his feet. "Oh, Jimmy, I heard you were delirious," he said, anxiously. "I was," said Jimmy, "very delirious, extraordinarily so. I’m not sure that I’m not delirious now." He looked around the room anxiously, and drew Williams into a corner. "Do you know anything about delirium?" he asked, anxiously. "A lot about delirium tremens," said Williams. "Most of the artists I’ve been with in Africa had it. They said it was malaria. But have you been drinking?" Carew shook his head. "Not much, but I see the room is full of ’em!" "Full of what?" "Things, visions, phantasms!" said Jimmy, creepily. Williams looked around in alarm. "You don’t say so!" "Yes," said Jimmy. "This influenza is awful! I could swear I see the marquis and Gordon and that ass Goby and De Vere!" "Pull yourself together," said Williams. "They’re here all right!" "Are they real?" asked Jimmy. "They’re not delusions?" "Devil a bit!" said Williams. "Oh," said Jimmy, "then I think I’ll have some brandy. What are they doing here?" [Illustration: JIMMY CAREW, A.R.A. He was the best looking of the whole "horde"] "What are we doing here?" asked Williams. "We’re mad! Oh, but, Jimmy, I’m dashed glad to see you," said Williams, with a lurid string of emphatic war expressions. "Those were happy days when I learnt about art with you, and you learnt about life with me!" "They were," said Jimmy. "But now I’m almost sick of art." Williams implored him not to say so. "Think of Rembrandt and Velasquez and Whistler!" "I can’t think of them. I think of Penelope!" "Try to think of Monet and Manet," said Williams. "They’ll do you good." "To be sure, to be sure," sighed Jimmy. "I’ll try to." They talked till two in the morning, and the only man missing was Bramber. "Perhaps he’s chucked it," said Williams. "The last time I saw him he looked sick enough to chuck anything. But I suppose the old earl is so rocky he can’t get away." "I hate earls," said Jimmy, jealously. He added with extraordinary irrelevance, "But I’m glad she adopted him." No doubt he referred to the infant. *CHAPTER XXVI.* While Pen and Bob and the baby were going as fast as they could toward Upwell Castle, Pen wept at intervals and hugged the child that all the "horde" were glad she had adopted. "My only darling," said Pen, convulsively. Bob shook his head.