The portrait and the name of his ward! In a few days he would be left in charge of an actress whose name was known to all London--guardian, _in loco parentis_, what you will, of the closest and most responsible, to a giddy girl of unknown antecedents, and too well-known name! He wondered whether Archdeacon had ever been in such a position before, a position which it would be hard to acknowledge and impossible to explain. He could talk of his old friendship for her mother, the actress, and his duty to a dying woman. But would the world believe him? Would even his wife believe him? Would not she read much between the lines, though the space were white as snow? He, a man of nearly sixty, grew red and white by turns as he thought of this. "I will tell Jack the story," was his first resolve. "I will tell it him at dinner to-night," he groaned. But would he have the courage? He had much respect for his son's practical nature. He had heard him called "hard as nails." And when he found himself opposite to him, and eyed the close-shaven young lawyer, who looked a decade older than his years, he resorted to a subterfuge. "Jack," he said, "I want your opinion for a friend of mine." "It is at your service, sir," his son said, his hand upon the apricots. "What is the subject? Law?" "Not precisely," the Archdeacon replied, clearing his throat. "It is rather a question of knowledge of the world. You know, my boy," he went on, "that I have a very high opinion of your discretion." "You are very good," said Jack. And he did that which was unusual with him. He blushed; but the other did not observe it. "My friend, who, I may say, is a clergyman in my archdeaconry," the elder gentleman resumed, "has been appointed guardian--it is a ridiculous thing for a man in his position--to a--a young actress. She is quite a girl, I understand, but of some notoriety." "Indeed," said Jack drily. "May I ask how that came about? Wards of that kind do not fall from heaven--as a rule." The Archdeacon winced. "He tells me," he explained, "that her mother was an old friend of his, and when she died, some time back, she left the girl as a kind of legacy, you see." "A legacy to him, sir?" "To him, certainly," the elder man said in some distress. "You follow me?" "Quite so," said Jack. "Oh, quite so! A common thing, no doubt. Did you say that your friend was a married man, sir?" "Yes," the Archdeacon replied faintly. "Just so! just so!" his son said, in the same tone, a tone that was so dreadful to the Archdeacon that it needed Jack's question, "And what is the point upon which he wants advice?" to induce him to go on. "What he had better do, being a clergyman." "He should have thought of that earlier--ahem!--I mean it depends a good deal on the young lady. There are actresses _and_ actresses, you know." "I suppose so," the Archdeacon admitted grudgingly. He was in a mood to see the darkest side of his difficulty.