William, not a nice child, had chosen this day of crisis for a bilious attack, which meant a stay in bed, so that Hal was denied the solace of his “den” to himself, and had to endure a series of stray visits, with William listening, and afterwards making thoughtful remarks with the Bunny bias clearly visible in their roll. Nina came to release her pent up nerves in a storm of “_Why_ did you do it?” and “How _could_ you?” His mother came, sat down on William’s bed, and talked cheerily to Hal about various topics, with frequent pauses in which he felt her dumb push towards an assurance that she did not care “any old way” about that “silly old pound.” And when Bunny entered, and just threw himself down moodily and glowered at William, Hal was so burdened by the atmosphere of criminal’s cell, that he suggested a tramp in the rain. Bunny’s gaze of sheer horror conveyed clearly his reproof--“What--as though nothing had happened?” But he merely said: “You couldn’t get out without meeting somebody or other----” so that Hal shrugged his shoulders, and remained where he was. “... Shut up, William!” Bunny shouted presently, when William had not uttered a word, and refused to hear the youngster’s righteous expostulations; and knocked over a tooth-glass, breaking it. A knock at the door, and Stanley Watson came in: “Look here, Hal old chap, you mustn’t think me interfering----” “Oh Lord----” Bunny dived for the door. He had never agreed with Hal in thinking Stanley humorous; and a fourth statement of the bank clerk’s point of view “which, just because he is _not_ one of the family, we ought, by the law of common justice, to recognize before our own----” was more than his overwrought condition could stand. Mr. Maxwell, who, alone of the family, could have remained secluded in his study, walked about the drawing-room, laboriously drawing his wife’s attention to the fact that he was not paying any special heed to Aunt Lavvy; grumbling because the Watsons were “all over the dining-room”; and suggesting from time to time that Florrie had better run up and have a look at William, whose illness might be more serious than it visibly appeared.... “I suppose you’re trying to say I’m one to let my sons die and not care!” Mr. Maxwell chose to regard the fact that she had “taken it like that”--his perfectly innocent remark--as significant of guilty memory. Had he been honest with himself, he would have acknowledged that he had scratched the memory of Ronnie into such an itching and inflamed condition that he simply could think and speak of nothing else, and that his remark about William had indeed been intended for wounding reminder. Like all jovial men, he had an especial talent for this.