Now, although the monetary transactions between them had been many, as luck would have it—entirely without his own design—they chanced in the main to have turned to his, Porson’s, advantage. Thus, owing chiefly to his intelligent development of its possibilities, the land which he bought from the Monk estate had increased enormously in value; so much so, indeed, that, even if he lost all the other sums advanced upon mortgage, he would still be considerably to the good. Therefore, as it happened, the Colonel was really under no obligations to him. In these circumstances, Mr. Porson did not quite know how a cold-blooded offer of an advance of cash without security—in practice a gift—would be received. “Have you anything definite in your mind?” he hesitated, timidly. The Colonel reflected. On his part he was wondering how Porson would receive the suggestion of a substantial loan. It seemed too much to risk. He was proud, and did not like to lay himself open to the possibility of rebuff. “I think not, John. Unless Morris should chance to make a good marriage, which is unlikely, for, as you know, he is an odd fish, I can see nothing before us except ruin. Indeed, at my age, it does not greatly matter, but it seems a pity that the old house should come to an end in such a melancholy and discreditable fashion.” “A pity! It is more than a pity,” jerked out Porson, with a sudden wriggle which caused him to rock up and down upon the stiff springs of the new sofa. As he spoke there came a knock at the door, and from the further side of it a slow, rich voice was heard, saying: “May I come in?” “That’s Mary,” said Mr. Porson. “Yes, come in, dear; it’s only your uncle.” The door opened, Mary came in, and, in some curious quiet way, at once her personality seemed to take possession of and dominate that shaded room. To begin with, her stature gave an idea of dominion, for, without being at all coarse, she was tall and full in frame. The face also was somewhat massive, with a rounded chin and large, blue eyes that had a trick of looking half asleep, and above a low, broad forehead grew her waving, golden hair, parted simply in the middle after the old Greek fashion. She wore a white dress, with a silver girdle that set off the beautiful outlines of her figure to great advantage, and with her a perfume seemed to pass, perhaps from the roses on her bosom. “A beautiful woman,” thought the Colonel to himself, as she came in, and he was no mean or inexperienced judge. “A beautiful woman, but a regular lotus-eater.” “How do you do, Uncle Richard?” said Mary, pausing about six feet away and holding out her hand. “I heard you scolding my poor dad about his bow-window. In fact, you woke me up; and, do you know, you used exactly the same words as you did at your visit after we came down from London last year.”