“Yes, I walked home,” said old Mr. Neave, and he sank into one of the immense drawing-room chairs. “But why didn’t you take a cab?” said Ethel. “There are hundreds of cabs about at that time.” “My dear Ethel,” cried Marion, “if father prefers to tire himself out, I really don’t see what business of ours it is to interfere.” “Children, children?” coaxed Charlotte. But Marion wouldn’t be stopped. “No, mother, you spoil father, and it’s not right. You ought to be stricter with him. He’s very naughty.” She laughed her hard, bright laugh and patted her hair in a mirror. Strange! When she was a little girl she had such a soft, hesitating voice; she had even stuttered, and now, whatever she said—even if it was only “Jam, please, father”—it rang out as though she were on the stage. “Did Harold leave the office before you, dear?” asked Charlotte, beginning to rock again. “I’m not sure,” said Old Mr. Neave. “I’m not sure. I didn’t see him after four o’clock.” “He said—” began Charlotte. But at that moment Ethel, who was twitching over the leaves of some paper or other, ran to her mother and sank down beside her chair. “There, you see,” she cried. “That’s what I mean, mummy. Yellow, with touches of silver. Don’t you agree?” “Give it to me, love,” said Charlotte. She fumbled for her tortoise-shell spectacles and put them on, gave the page a little dab with her plump small fingers, and pursed up her lips. “Very sweet!” she crooned vaguely; she looked at Ethel over her spectacles. “But I shouldn’t have the train.” “Not the train!” wailed Ethel tragically. “But the train’s the whole point.” “Here, mother, let me decide.” Marion snatched the paper playfully from Charlotte. “I agree with mother,” she cried triumphantly. “The train overweights it.” Old Mr. Neave, forgotten, sank into the broad lap of his chair, and, dozing, heard them as though he dreamed. There was no doubt about it, he was tired out; he had lost his hold. Even Charlotte and the girls were too much for him to-night. They were too... too.... But all his drowsing brain could think of was—too _rich_ for him. And somewhere at the back of everything he was watching a little withered ancient man climbing up endless flights of stairs. Who was he? “I shan’t dress to-night,” he muttered. “What do you say, father?” “Eh, what, what?” Old Mr. Neave woke with a start and stared across at them. “I shan’t dress to-night,” he repeated. “But, father, we’ve got Lucile coming, and Henry Davenport, and Mrs. Teddie Walker.” “It will look so _very_ out of the picture.” “Don’t you feel well, dear?” “You needn’t make any effort. What is Charles _for_?” “But if you’re really not up to it,” Charlotte wavered. “Very well! Very well!” Old Mr. Neave got up and went to join that little old climbing fellow just as far as his dressing-room....