So there he was, no longer suffering the—to him—hideous nightmare of having to live alone in a desolate house, but situated in a luxurious mansion, virtually in the country, yet only a few miles from the violently beating heart of the town, and surrounded by his own people, who turned out to be very enjoyable company—some of them, indeed, quite charming. All went well and pleasantly—if you leave out occasional minor discords of small consequence—for quite some years. But owing to the inroads of death, marriage, and desertion, the population of the mansion decreased as time went on, and no way to recruit it to full strength occurred to Mr. Cripps. His sister Cynthia died early in 1904 and was followed by her daughter Dorothy a year and a half later. Others of the household had crossed the line; then, too, a couple of marriages had snatched their victims from the fold; and a few of the members of this synthetic family had departed for reasons of their own. It had been quite a successful experiment as experiments go—more so than you’d think; and there’s no denying that old Cripps had got a lot of satisfaction out of it. But the thing had been falling away from him piece by piece, and finally his sister’s son Augustus was the only one left in the house with him. The old man had had a good pull at it, but here he was down to the last dreg—as you’d be likely to call it if you were acquainted with that precious nephew of his. Being the only near relative that old Mr. Cripps now had on hand—or, indeed, had at all—it was generally supposed that Augustus Findlay would inherit the mansion, together with whatever else the old gentleman should die possessed of. But all did not go well between the two and there were times when gossip had it that the sporty young nephew would lose out on the “give and bequeath” proposition if he didn’t shove down the emergency brake on his behavior. It was surely a trying thing for Michael Sutherland Cripps, with age and rheumatism already beginning to frolic with him, and the most of his once big pile melted away—or more truthfully pelted away, for during these years of his family life he’d spent without limit—to have to associate on intimate terms with a most objectionable brat of a nephew, coming in nearly every night of his life fuddled with booze—a cheap skate, and an unmitigated loafer in the real sense of the word, for at the age of twenty-six never a thought of earning his living had crossed his mind. Yet with all that he wasn’t a bad looker—almost handsome in a dissipated sort of way. And he could be charming on occasion. Women appeared fascinated by him—that is, some women. He had a high-class one on the line once and came near landing her, but she found out in time, tore out the hook, and swam away.