In the fuller light, Gibbs seemed more unprepossessing than ever, and there was that about him which explained as fully as spoken words could have done, the cause and nature of his dependence on Benson. Stephen saw in their relation, as he now understood it, only a manifestation of the lawyer's charity and goodness. It was Gibbs who kept the conversation alive during dinner. He called upon Stephen to admire each course as it was served, it was all his idea, he had battered sense into their heads in the kitchen. They slouched for Jake, but they knew a whole lot better than to try that on him; he made 'em stand around. But presently this topic was exhausted. Stephen turned to Benson. “Do you remember a boy called Reddy, Uncle Jake, a little fellow I used to play with before I went away to school?” he asked. “Riley Crittendon, you mean, he was back here some years ago. He is doing very well in the West,” said the lawyer. “I made the trip from New York with him. Yes, he says he is very successful.” “His mother rents one of Jake's houses—nice little old lady—not so very old either,” said Gibbs. “He told me about another of my friends, Benjamin Wade,” said Stephen. “Reddy says he's a lawyer.” “A very clever one, too, which I suppose he didn't tell you,” said Benson. “And a young fellow who is going to travel far and fast, if some one don't stop him,” said Gibbs grumpily. “Gibbs don't like him any too well,” said Benson. “Humph! He never courted my approval; I reckon he'll flourish like a green bay tree without it. I saw Mrs. Landray to-day, Steve—your Aunt Virginia.” added Gibbs abruptly. “I told her you were expected home. I reckon she'll look to see you to-morrow.” Benson frowned slightly at this. “I have a vivid recollection of Aunt Virginia,” said Stephen. “You ought to,” said Gibbs, turning a sudden purple. “I fetched you here to her, and you lived with her for a while; but you were only a little fellow then, Steve. It ain't to be wondered that your memory don't travel back into the past as freely as mine does. She was a second mother to your father.” Stephen was less and less disposed to like this shabby disreputable old man. He wondered why it was that Benson tolerated him at his dinner-table, and his wonder grew as the dinner progressed; for Gibbs taking advantage of the occasion applied himself diligently to the wine, and with disastrous results. As he relapsed from sobriety, his conversation became questionable; he was profane, and he was vulgar; or in recalling the past, to which he constantly reverted, he went swiftly from drunken sentiment to drunken tears. At last Benson stretched out a hand and took the bottle from before him. “You've had enough, Gibbs. We'll go into the library,” he said coldly.