He walked to the window and looked out gloomily upon the gray clouds driving over the black chimney-cans. The wind had risen to a moderate gale, and the air was filled with sounds. It struck him as a very uproarious day for a Writer to the Signet to be going to his long home. He had given his father credit for soberer tastes. In fact, he was reminded unpleasantly of the riotous people he had heard of who passed away in company with a pint of champagne and a cigar. This sort of thing would really not do. "About my will, Andrew," said his father's voice. He turned with remarkable alacrity and a forgiving eye. At once he was the deferential offspring. "You'll find you're left very well off," continued Mr. Walkingshaw. His son's cheeks bulged in a melancholy smile; precisely the right smile under the circumstances. "Not at the expense of the others, I hope," he answered modestly. "Oh, I was meaning you'd be well off as a family." The smile subsided. "Oh, I beg your pardon," said Andrew. "But of course you'll get the bulk." The smile mournfully returned. "You have the position to keep up, and I thought it only fair to you," said Mr. Walkingshaw. Andrew bent his head in solemn acknowledgment of the truth of this observation and the justice of the arrangement. "There's just one little addendum I want to make. This unpleasant affair of Jean's has set me thinking, and supposing I'm taken, Andrew--just supposing--" "Assuming it's as we fear--I understand, I understand." "Well, then, you see, I'll not be here myself to keep Frank and Jean from doing foolish-like things if they happen to have a mind to; and they're not like you and their sisters. You've all chosen sensibly, but they're in a kind of way different. I ought to have had them educated at home." "What I've always said," his son agreed. "Anyhow, it's too late now, and what I'll just have to do is this--introduce a clause making them forfeit their shares if they marry without your consent in the next five years." "Would ten not be safer?" suggested Andrew. "We'll say seven, then. And of course you'll not withhold your consent unreasonably? I'll trust you for that." Andrew's attitude expressed to such perfection the confidence that might be reposed in him that his father shed him a satisfied smile. "And now," said he, "I wonder had you not better get me my will?--or we might wait till to-morrow, and see how I'm feeling then." If the junior partner had looked grave before, he looked funereal now. "Your mind's clear now," he said. "I wouldn't put it off." "Well, well," said Mr. Walkingshaw, "there are my keys on the dressing-table: you know where to find the will." Andrew went downstairs as solemnly as he had come up, and with the same faint squeak. CHAPTER VII