Sir Giles was so far from appreciating the effort of his son, that he sat fuming in his chair, while Dunning collected the scattered “men,” muttering indistinct thunders, and pettishly putting away with his stick the pieces of the game. “Make haste! can’t you make haste, man?” he mumbled; “I want my drink, and I’m going to bed. And I won’t have my evening spoiled like this again. I won’t, by George, not for anything you can say. Four nights I’ve been a martyr to that cub, and I don’t see that you’ve done much to keep him in order, my lady! It all falls upon me, as everything does, and, by George, I won’t have it again. Can’t you make haste, you old fool, and have done with your groping? You’re losing your eyesight, I believe. Have one of the women in to find them, and get me my drink, for I’m going to bed.” “I’ll find them, father,” cried Gervase cheerfully, plunging down upon the carpet on his hands and knees, and pushing the old gentleman’s stick back into his face. “For goodness’ sake, Meg, find something for him to do! and take that boy off his father, or Sir Giles will have a fit,” cried Lady Piercey in Mrs. Osborne’s ear. “Get out o’ my way, you young ass!” Sir Giles thundered, raising the stick and bestowing an angry blow upon his son’s shoulders. Gervase sat up on his knees like a dog, and stared for a moment angrily, with his hand lifted as if he would have returned the blow. Then he opened his mouth wide and gave forth a great laugh. Poor old Sir Giles caught at Dunning’s arm, clutching him in an ecstasy of exasperation. “Get me off, man, can’t you? Get me out of sight of him; take me to bed,” the old father cried, in that wretchedness of miserable perception which only parents know. His son--his only son! His heir, the last of the Piercey’s!--this Softy sitting up like a dog upon the floor!