“Papa, Gervase doesn’t mean to be disrespectful. Don’t you see that he is _done_, that there is no strength left in him?” “I mean no harm,” Gervase said. “For God’s sake, tell me in plain words--was everything paid?” “I wish you knew a little more of the commercial slang you despise. You will misunderstand what I am about to say. Everything was paid--which it was possible to pay. An arrangement was made which everybody accepted--fifteen shillings in the pound--the next thing to payment in full. It was all settled and accepted by universal consent.” Gervase got up stupidly from his chair. “I thought there must be some quibble in it,” he said, the heavy cloud so lowering over his face that for the moment he was almost, even to Madeline’s eyes, unrecognisable. “Will the West India money make it up?” “Don’t be a fool, Gervase,” said Mr Thursley, sharply. “Everything, I tell you, is settled. You have no right to interfere.” Gervase stood regarding him blankly: his food was untasted on his plate, the meal not half over. He stood up, unconscious of all the circumstances--unconscious even of Madeline’s anxious look dwelling on him. “Will the West India money do it?” he said. CHAPTER VII. Mr Thursley would have nothing to do with the further steps which Gervase took. He would take no further interest in such a madman. Had he even employed this money, which had been providentially kept out of sight till Mr Burton’s arrangement was made, and of which nobody knew anything--had he embarked in business with it--for there was no doubt now that he had a capacity for business--and made his own of it, and laid the foundations of fortune, and then stepped forward when he was able to afford it, and paid the balance of his father’s debts, the thing might have been permissible enough, and would no doubt have had a very good effect. But to do it now--when instead of having a good effect it would have a bad one, as if Mr Burton had kept back something: whereas it had been the very source of that high appreciation which had made all his creditors his friends, that he had kept back nothing--this was more grievous than words could say. It was Gervase’s money, not his father’s. He had been sent away to make anything he could of that almost lapsed property, with the understanding that anything he recovered should be his own. And it was all settled, as Mr Thursley repeated over and over again--all _done_--the acquittance signed, the whole matter laid at rest. Why should he interfere, after his father had completed everything? These arguments were repeated over and over--argumentatively, entreatingly, angrily--but without effect. Gervase was not even intelligent at this crisis of his being. He did not seem to understand. He was like a man dazed and stupefied, unable to comprehend anything but one thing, and with his entire mind concentrated on that, whatever any one might say. No argument or reason had any