“Once upon a time I knew an old colonel (retired) who lived in the Nielgherries,” began Waring. “All his family were out in the world, sons in the service, daughters married, and he was left stranded. He had his garden, his ponies, some ancient chums and old retainers, and though all his relations were at the other end of the world, he would not budge. No less than three times he took his passage home; twice he went down to Madras, bag and baggage, accompanied by his servants. Once he was actually on board ship and in his cabin, but when they said, ‘Any one for the shore,’ he bundled his kit together and went back in a Massulah boat. He is out here still. I recollect another instance, an old general, a regular old derelict, clinging, as to a spar, to the last station he commanded. I saw him--and this was in the plains, mind you--going for his evening drive in his old carriage, with a pair of antediluvian horses--all alone, too. He had a venerable, long white beard, and was eighty-six years of age, and fond of saying, ‘Thirty years ago, when I commanded this station!’ The authorities and folks in general humoured him--people are not so much hustled out here, and have time to indulge old folk’s fancies. He came to all the field days, and drew up behind the saluting post in his old barouche. He thought the army was going to the dogs, I can tell you, and white helmets, white clothes, and canes, so many scandalous innovations. He had a heap of relations in England, never wrote to one of them, and left all his money to the grandson of his first love and the Friend in Need Society! Your father is just another of these people, as you will see.” “Time will tell; and, talking of time, Clarence, I think it is time that we should put an end to our little farce.” Clarence, who was sitting opposite to his companion, and leaning his arms on a rickety writing-table, raised his head and gazed at him rather blankly. “Old boy, you must surely see that it has gone far enough--in fact, just a bit _too_ far. When Miss Paske fired a wild shot in the dark, and said that I did not consider it always necessary to tell the whole truth about myself, I felt downright guilty; when she said I was a bit of an impostor, I know I blushed like a peony! The deception, small at first, has grown to a big thing. I go by the name of ‘the poor relation,’ and all the mothers fight shy of me!” “And is not that just what you particularly aimed at?” demanded Clarence, sharply. “I think the whole scheme has worked capitally. I’m sure I have played _my_ part well, and so have you”--with a loud laugh of unnatural hilarity. “Yes, but I feel as if I was acting a lie, though I have never actually uttered one in so many words. I have never said that I was poor----”