“Oh, Lord, David, who’d ha’ thought it of you!” he said. “You won’t take a thousand?” David shook his head. “Not five hundred?” David grinned. “Not five pence,” he said. Old Mr. Mottisfont glared at him for a moment. “Prig,” he observed with great conciseness. Then he pursed up his lips, felt under his pillow, and pulled out a long folded paper. “All the more for Edward,” he said maliciously. “All the more for Edward, and all the more reason for Edward to wish me dead. I wonder he don’t poison me. Perhaps he will. Oh, Lord, I’d give something to see Edward tried for murder! Think of it, David—only think of it—Twelve British Citizens in one box—Edward in another—all the British Citizens looking at Edward, and Edward looking as if he was in church, and wondering if the moth was getting into his collections, and if any one would care for ’em when he was dead and gone. Eh, David? Eh, David? And Mary—like Niobe, all tears——” David had been chuckling to himself, but at the mention of Edward’s wife his face changed a little. He continued to laugh, but his eyes hardened, and he interrupted his patient: “Come, sir, you mustn’t tire yourself.” “Like Niobe, all tears,” repeated Mr. Mottisfont, obstinately. “Sweetly pretty she’d look too—eh, David? Edward’s a lucky dog, ain’t he?” David’s eyes flashed once and then hardened still more. His chin was very square. “Come, sir,” he repeated, and looked steadily at the old man. “Beast—ain’t I?” said old Mr. Mottisfont with the utmost cheerfulness. He occupied himself with arranging the bedclothes in an accurate line across his chest. As he did so, his hand touched the long folded paper, and he gave it an impatient push. “You’re a damn nuisance, David,” he said. “I’ve made my will once, and now I’ve to make it all over again just to please you. All the whole blessed thing over again, from ‘I, Edward Morell Mottisfont,’ down to ‘I deliver this my act and deed.’ Oh, Lord, what a bore.” “Mr. Fenwick,” suggested David, and old Mr. Edward Mottisfont flared into sudden wrath.