"Ah, you may well ask!" he said--"you may well ask! 'Tis the question I've been putting to myself every hour since they laid me here. You know the world, James. You know what the world will be to two pretty, penniless girls. And they're so unconscious of it all! That's the sting of it. They're so unconscious of it all! They care for me; they cling to me as if I were a good man, and in five years' time they may be cursing the hour they were born." A fresh groan was wrung from him. A look of apprehension crossed Milbanke's face. "Oh no, Denis!" he exclaimed quickly. "No. Things can't be as bad as that. Your suffering has told upon your nerves. Things can't be as bad as that." "They are worse. I tell you these two children will face life without a penny." "No, no! You exaggerate. Why, even if you were to die they would still have the place. The place must be worth something." "Ah, if I could only drug my conscience with that thought! But I can't--I can't! Before I'm cold in my grave my creditors will be down on the property like a swarm of rats." "No, no!" "Yes! I tell you yes! The children will be homeless as well as penniless." Milbanke glanced about him in deep perplexity. "There's your sister-in-law," he hazarded at length. "Fan?" Asshlin made a contemptuous grimace. "Fan is as poor as a church mouse already. Laurence had nothing to leave her: the Navy beggared him. No, Fan could do nothing for them. And, anyway, she and Clodagh couldn't stand each other for a twelvemonth. You might as well try to blend fire and water. No, there's no way out of it. I'm reaping the whirlwind, James. I'm reaping it with a vengeance." The fever of his suffering and the excitement of his remorse were burning in his eyes. In the three days of his illness his natural exuberance of mind had been directed towards one point--the tardily aroused knowledge of the future that awaited his children. And the consequence had been a piteous intermingling of realisation and partial delirium. His agony and helplessness were pitiable as he turned to his friend. "What am I to do, James?" he asked--"what am I to do?" Milbanke bent over him. "Denis! Denis!" he pleaded. "But what am I to do? Advise me while there's time. 'Tis for that I've wanted you. You've always been a good man. What must I do?" Milbanke tightened his lips. "You have friends," he said. "Ah! but how many? And where?" There was no response for a moment, as Milbanke slowly straightened himself and glanced across the room towards the fire. Then very quietly he turned towards the bed. "You have one--here," he said in a low voice. For an instant Asshlin answered nothing; then an odd sound--something between a laugh and a sob--shook him. "James!" he cried. "James!" But Milbanke leant forward hastily. "Not a word!" he said. "Not one word! If thanks are due, it is from me to you. It is not every day that human responsibilities fall to an old bachelor of my age."