"My dear boy, we are on the verge of ruin," exclaimed Mr. Robert Carlaw. "Why should I disguise the fact from you? Why should I hide from you, who know the whole deplorable circumstances, the miserable truth? This morning a letter has arrived, threatening a distraint upon our goods unless a large sum of money be paid by to-morrow. Think of it, a distraint upon our goods! The horror, the disgrace of it!" he exclaimed, smiting his forehead with one hand and waving the other despairingly. "That is our cursed temperament--my son's and mine--that we can go on through the world like happy children, laughing in the sunshine, picking the brilliant flowers of life, heedless of everything; when a storm comes and the wind howls--you follow my metaphor?--we are lost, absolutely lost. Others were born to face the world and its trials, to make a stubborn fight of it if necessary; we are exotics, my son and I, under an open sky, and we perish miserably. In point of fact, we are on the eve of perishing miserably at this moment." "I am sorry," replied Comethup slowly, "but on this occasion I can't help you." Mr. Robert Carlaw stopped and touched his arm, and peered anxiously into his face, "Can't help us?" he cried, "What do you mean?" "I mean that I have no money; that it's all gone, and that I sha'n't have any more for perhaps another two months. I've already drawn more than was due to me at the bank." "But, my dear boy," whimpered his uncle, "what is to become of us, what is to become of _me_? Think of the position: you have taught me to be dependent upon you, to look to you for the supply of those little comforts--not to say luxuries--which are necessary to a man of my position. I have felt so--so safe! Fortune has not been good to me; Fortune has stripped me of everything; and then, at the last moment, melting a little toward me, has pointed to you and has said in effect: 'Go to Comethup; our dear Comethup will assist you.' And I have come to you accordingly. My dear nephew, what is to become of us?" Comethup faced about and looked at him contemptuously. "Yes, I know, you've come to me for everything; have relied upon me for everything. I've had a thousand a year from my aunt, and, as God's my witness, I haven't spent fifty of it. It's all gone to feed you, and your son, and"--he paused, and a gentler expression came over his face--"yes, and 'Linda. Well, I suppose it's all right; you'd got to be fed and kept going somehow, and it was easier for me to do it than it would have been for any one else. But now, here's an end of it. I'd help you if I could--you know that but I simply can't. It's impossible for me to go to my aunt, even if I could bring myself to do it; she'd want to know where the money had gone, would want to know a thousand things I can't tell her. I tell you things have come to a deadlock; you've drained me--you and Brian--and you can drain me no further."