"Because it's an infernal shame!" said the other, shortly. "He's an old laborer who'd saved quite a lot of money. He kept it in his cottage, and the other day it was all stolen by a tramp. He has lived with these two women--his sister-in-law and her daughter--for years and years. As long as he had money to leave, nothing was too good for him. The shock half killed him, and now that he's a pauper these two harpies will have nothing to say to nursing him and looking after him. He told me the other day he thought they'd force him into the infirmary. I didn't believe it. But while I've been away they've gone and done it." "Well, what'll you do now?" "Get him out." "And then?" Delafield hesitated. "Well, then, I suppose, he can come to my place till I can find some decent woman to put him with." Sir Wilfrid rose. "I think I'll run down and see you some day. Will there be paupers in all the bedrooms?" Delafield grinned. "You'll find a rattling good cook and a jolly snug little place, I can tell you. Do come. But I shall see you again soon. I must be up next week, and very likely I shall be at Lady Henry's on Wednesday." "All right. I shall see her on Sunday, so I can report." "Not before Sunday?" Delafield paused. His clear blue eyes looked down, dissatisfied, upon Sir Wilfrid. "Impossible before. I have all sorts of official people to see to-morrow and Saturday. And, Jacob, keep the Duchess quiet. She may have to give up Mademoiselle Julie for her bazaar." "I'll tell her." "By-the-way, is that little person happy?" said Sir Wilfrid, as he opened the door to his departing guest. "When I left England she was only just married." "Oh yes, she's happy enough, though Crowborough's rather an ass." "How--particularly?" Delafield smiled. "Well, he's rather a sticky sort of person. He thinks there's something particularly interesting in dukes, which makes him a bore." "Take care, Jacob! Who knows that you won't be a duke yourself some day?" "What _do_ you mean?" The young man glowered almost fiercely upon his old friend. "I hear Chudleigh's boy is but a poor creature," said Sir Wilfrid, gravely. "Lady Henry doesn't expect him to live." "Why, that's the kind that always does live!" cried Delafield, with angry emphasis. "And as for Lady Henry, her imagination is a perfect charnel-house. She likes to think that everybody's dead or dying but herself. The fact is that Mervyn is a good deal stronger this year than he was last. Really, Lady Henry--" The tone lost itself in a growl of wrath. "Well, well," said Sir Wilfrid, smiling, "'A man beduked against his will,' etcetera. Good-night, my dear Jacob, and good luck to your old pauper." But Delafield turned back a moment on the stairs. "I say"--he hesitated--"you won't shirk talking to Lady Henry?" "No, no. Sunday, certainly--honor bright. Oh, I think we shall straighten it out." Delafield ran down the stairs, and Sir Wilfrid returned to his warm room and the dregs of his tea.