‘Thank you,’ answered Lucius gravely, ‘that is just what I want. I doubt if I have a near relation in the world, and I know but one man whom I count my friend. Friendship with me, therefore, means something very real. It is not a hackneyed sentiment, worn threadbare by long usage. But now that we have arranged things pleasantly, let us have our medical inspection.’ ‘Not to-night,’ said Mr. Sivewright. ‘Come to me to-morrow, if you can spare me the time. My symptoms are not of a pressing kind. I only feel the wheels of life somewhat clogged; the mainspring weaker than it used to be. Let us give to-night to friendship.’ ‘Willingly,’ answered Lucius. ‘I will be with you at ten o’clock to-morrow morning.’ He drew his chair nearer to the hearth, feeling that he was now really admitted to the charmed circle. To most young men it would have been far from an attractive house; for him it possessed an almost mysterious fascination. Indeed, it was perhaps the element of mystery which made Lucille Sivewright so interesting in his eyes. He had seen plenty of women who were as pretty—some who were more beautiful—but not one who had ever filled his thoughts as she did. ‘Pour out the tea, child,’ said Mr. Sivewright, and that fragrant beverage was dispensed by Lucille’s white hands. It was one of the few details of housekeeping in which the old man permitted extravagance. The tea was of the choicest, brewed without stint, and the small antique silver jug, adorned with elaborate _repoussé_ work, contained cream. Lucius thought he had never tasted anything so exquisite as that cup of tea. They sat round the fire, and the old man talked well and freely—talked of the struggles of his youth, his art-worship, those wonderful strokes of fortune to which the dealer in bric-à-brac is ever liable—talked of everything connected with his career, except his domestic life. On that one subject he was dumb. Lucius thought of the castaway, the son who was of no more account to his father than one of the wooden images in the crowded storehouse across the hall. What had been his crime? Perhaps never to have been loved at all. This old man’s nature seemed of a hard-grained wood, which could scarcely put forth tender shoots and blossoms of affection—a man who would consider his son his natural enemy. ‘You spoke of your violin some time ago,’ Lucille said, by and by, in a pause of the conversation. Mr. Sivewright, having talked about himself to his heart’s content, leaned back in his chair and contemplated the fire. ‘Do you really play? I am so fond of the violin.’ ‘Are you, indeed?’ cried Lucius, enraptured. ‘I’ll bring it some night, and—’ ‘Don’t!’ ejaculated the old man decisively. ‘I am something of Chesterfield’s opinion, that fiddling is beneath a gentleman. If I hear you scraping catgut I shall lose all confidence in your medicines.’