"No, Sir Hilton, with all due respect to you," said the trainer, drawing himself up; "seeing how things has happened, and what it all means to me and mine now, I say as you ain't fit to be left. Is he, my dear?" "No, dad. I think he looks very ill." "That's right, my dear," whispered the trainer. "Here you are, and here you're going to stop." Sir Hilton had turned angrily away at the trainer's reply, and went out into the hall, followed by Syd. "What impudence! Not ill a bit now, only a little thick in the head. Hang him! Let him stop, Syd; but what about that girl? I don't know what your aunt will say." "No, uncle; no more do I." Sir Hilton pulled out his watch and glanced at it. "Here, confound it! My watch has stopped. What time--" Before he could finish his question the clock began to answer by chiming twice. "Half-past what?" cried Sir Hilton, staring at the clock-face, and then passing his hand over his eyes impatiently. "I say, here, Syd, my eyes are not clear to-night. What time is it?" "Half-past three, uncle." "Half-past what? Here, I'm getting mixed. Why is it half-past three? What has the clock been gaining like that for? Here, Syd, why don't you answer, sir? I can't remember. What does it all mean?" "I think it's because your head's a bit wrong, uncle," said the boy, shrinking. "I think it's because you're an impudent young rascal, sir," cried Sir Hilton in a passion. "Ah! I remember now; I promised you a good thrashing for--for--" He stopped short, and looked vacantly at his nephew for some seconds. Then-- "Here, what the deuce did I promise you a good thrashing for, sir?" "A thrashing, uncle? Let me see--" "Bah!" cried Sir Hilton, turning angrily away and making for the drawing-room again, to find the trainer mopping his forehead where he sat, and Molly leaning back in the corner of the quilted couch dropping off to sleep, but ready to start up at his coming. "Here, you," he cried, "that boy Syd's an idiot." "That I'm sure he's not," cried the girl, indignantly, "and you oughtn't to call him so, even if you are his uncle. Syd!" "You tell me, then," said Sir Hilton. "What did I--Oh, hang it all!" he cried, "I can't remember a bit." "That you can't, Sir Hilton," said the trainer, nervously, as Sir Hilton stared at him blankly, pressing his hands to his head. "It's just what I told you, Sir Hilton. What you want is a good night's rest, and you'll feel better in the morning." "But I feel better now--ever so much. What should I want to go to bed for? Why, I've only just got up." "Oh, dear!" groaned the trainer to himself. "I give it him too strong; I give it him too strong, and it was nothing like what one might ha' give a horse."