“I couldn't say exactly,” said Uncle Sylvester reflectively. “It may be his eyes, or only his cravat! But,” rising cheerfully and placing his hand lightly on his brother's shoulder, “don't YOU worry yourself about that stock, old man; I'LL see that somebody else has the worry and you the cash. And as to the land and--Kitty--well, you hold on to them both until you find out which the young man is really after.” “And then?” said Gabriel, with a smile. “Don't give him either! But, I say, haven't we had enough business this morning? Let's talk of something else. Who's the French girl?” “Marie? She's the daughter of Jules du Page--don't you remember?--father's friend. When Jules died, it was always thought that father, who had half adopted her as a child, would leave her some legacy. But you know that father died without making a will, and that--rich as he was--his actual assets were far less than we had reason to expect. Kitty, who felt the disappointment as keenly as her friend, I believe would have divided her own share with her. It's odd, by the way, that father could have been so deceived in the amount of his capital, or how he got rid of his money in a way that we knew nothing of. Do you know, Sylvester, I've sometimes suspected”-- “What?” said Uncle Sylvester suddenly. The bored languor of his face had abruptly vanished. Every muscle was alert; his gray eyes glittered. “That he advanced money to Du Page, who lost it, or that they speculated together,” returned Gabriel, who, following Uncle Sylvester's voice only, had not noticed the change of expression. “That would seem to be a weakness of the Lane family,” said Uncle Sylvester grimly, with a return of his former carelessness. “But that is not YOUR own opinion--that's a suggestion of some one else?” “Well,” said Gabriel, with a laugh and a slight addition of color, “it WAS Gunn's theory. As a man of the world and a practical financier, you know.” “And you've talked with HIM about it?” “Yes. It was a matter of general wonder years ago.” “Very likely--but, just now, don't you think we've had enough financial talk?” said Uncle Sylvester, with a bored contraction of his eyebrows. “Come,” looking around the room, “you've changed the interior of the old house.” “Yes. Unfortunately, just after father's death it was put in the hands of a local architect or builder, one of father's old friends, but not a very skillful workman, who made changes while the family were away. That's why your present bedroom, which was father's old study, had a slice taken off it to make the corridor larger, and why the big chimney and hearthstone are still there, although the fireplace is modernized. That was Flint's stupidity.” “Whose stupidity?” asked Uncle Sylvester, trimming his nails. “Flint's--the old architect.” “Why didn't you make him change it back again?”