“Well, no more _Frühlingsrauschen_, then. What about the _Barcarolle_? Offenbach’s, I mean. Any objection to that?” “Yes. Will you be good enough to understand that you’re not to bang on that piano again.” “Oh, you mean it? I thought it was just your fun, uncle. But I like the piano. Surely you’ll let me use it sometimes.” “No. I’ve had enough of it.” “But . . .” Roger’s face had been darkening. “That’s enough! I’ve more important things to talk to you about. What age are you nowadays? Twenty-two or twenty-three, isn’t it? And you’ve never done a stroke of work in your life, so far? A pretty record, isn’t it?” He paused, and paced over to the window and back again. “That’s got to stop. I’ve had to support one loafer—your Uncle Ernest. But if you imagine that I have a fad for collecting loafers, you’re mistaken. I’ve got your uncle on my hands permanently, I suppose; but I don’t propose to increase my stock of parasites for your benefit. You’ll have to find something to do. I’m not going to let you hang around Whistlefield for ever.” Arthur’s good-natured face had darkened in its turn. “You might increase your stock of politeness without overdoing things, it seems to me. I’m not altogether a loafer. I’m an invalid.” Roger took no notice of the plea. “Whistlefield isn’t a hospital.” “Or an asylum—I suppose that’s what you mean? You’d better take care, uncle. There are some things a fellow doesn’t forget, once they’re said.” Roger’s temper, never very far below the surface, boiled up at his nephew’s remark. “That’s enough, Arthur. I’ll give you three months more. After that, you can fend for yourself. You won’t starve. You’ve got enough money to keep you alive even if the worst comes to the worst. Anyhow, I wash my hands of you.” Arthur Hawkhurst’s control was no better than his uncle’s when once the point had penetrated through the skin. “A pretty specimen of an uncle! The kind one meets in the ‘Babes in the Wood,’ eh? Go out into the world and starve, Arthur dear. The little dicky-birds will put leaves on you—_and I’ll get the money your mother left you!_ That’s the scheme, I suppose. It’s a wonder a thing like you is allowed to live.” The flagrant absurdity of the charge checked Roger for a moment. After all, the boy was off his balance. One shouldn’t take him seriously. “You’re an ass, Arthur!” was all he vouchsafed in reply. But Arthur’s disturbed brain had tilted out of its normal equilibrium, and his rage found vent in a wild threat as he flung himself out of the room. “I’ve a good mind to get in first myself; and do for you, before you can do me any more harm. Look out for yourself!”