"Don't do anything foolish, dearest," says Dulce, with her eyes large and frightened. "Do listen to Fabian." "And let myself be conquered by a pettish chestnut, at my age," says Sir Christopher, lightly--he had been a famous horseman in his day. "My dear child, you don't understand, and there are moments when Fabian romances. To satisfy you, however, I shall take George with me." "'Wilful man must have his way,'" quotes Fabian, with a slight shrug. "Before I go out, shall I look over those accounts with Slyme?" "Where are you going?" "To the warren, with the others, to have a few shots at the rabbits; they overrun the place." "Very good. Just ask Slyme about the accounts. By-the-by, he gets more irregular daily." "More drunk, do you mean?" says Fabian. There are moments when his manner is both cold and uncompromising. Portia regards him curiously. "Yes! yes! Just so," says Sir Christopher, hastily. "But for the melancholy story that attaches itself to him--and that, of course, is some excuse for him--I really should not feel myself justified in keeping him here much longer." "What story?" asks Portia. "Oh! well; it all lies in a nutshell. It is an old story, too; one has so often heard it. A bad son--dissipated--in perpetual hot water. A devoted father. Then, one day, a very bad story comes, and the son has to fly the country. And then, some time afterward, news comes of his death. Slyme never saw him again. He broods over that, I think; at least, he has never been the same man since the son, Matthew, left England. It was all a very unhappy business." "For the father, perhaps. For the son, he had more than ordinary luck to die as soon as he did," says Fabian. He does not speak at all bitterly. Only hopelessly, and without heart or feeling. "Nobody knows how old Gregory got him out of the country so cleverly," says Sir Christopher. "It was a marvel how he managed to elude the grasp of the law." "He satisfied the one principal creditor, I suppose?" says Fabian, indifferently. "Oh! impossible," says Sir Christopher. "It came to hundreds, you know; and he hadn't a farthing. Well, good-by; I'm off. Expect me and the bon-bons about dinner-hour." He nods to Portia and Julia, who smile at him in return, and, kissing Dulce, quits the room. Fabian, following him, goes on to the library; and, having desired one of the men to send the secretary, Slyme, to him, sits down at one of the tables and turns over leisurely the pages of accounts that lie there. After a brief examination, he tells himself impatiently that they are somewhat muddled, or have, at least, been attended to in a most slovenly manner. He has just discovered a serious mistake in the row of figures that adorns the end of the second page, when the door opens slowly, and Gregory Slyme comes in.