Thus Arthur was in the sunny path of his existence at last, and he seemed to become a new being under the influence of his happiness. Luke Somerton and his wife were calm spectators of all these changes, and meanwhile they had their own little schemes for the future. There was a certain farm in the Lincolnshire fens which Mrs. Somerton had known as a girl, and which, from inquiries that Luke had made, was likely to be “To Let.” There were no more fertile pastures than those which surrounded it in all the fen country, not a pleasanter house and garden, no better shooting than was to be had close by, and with the advantage of being near an important town, and not far from a railway station. Luke and his wife had calculated the prospects of settling down in their own native county, and the bailiff was full of plans and schemes, which were an everlasting source of pleasant, hopeful talk. * * * * * All this time Richard Tallant was up to his neck in the great game of financial speculation, and rumour had over and over again predicted his downfall. The Eastern Bank, notwithstanding his father’s noble contribution towards its shaken capital, had failed. The Indian branches had suffered serious losses, and the retirement of Mr. Tallant from the directory had led to other resignations, and Stock Exchange rumours had eventually shaken the confidence of depositors and others, and the Bank went to the wall. The Meter Iron Works continued to flourish, but with diminished dividends and gradually falling stock. Mr. Tallant had been mixed up with some of the greatest failures of the day, and people said that by-and-by, when he really came to understand his own position, he would find himself insolvent; but people said this about dozens of others whose possessions had not even been shaken in the panic, and who could show a _bonâ fide_ income of many thousands a year from real property. What did Richard Tallant care for all this? Nothing, so far as the world could judge; but it made him irritable and ill-tempered in his own house. His valet could have told you a good deal about this, and so could the servants; but to the outside world, whatever else he might be, he was a straightforward, independent, good-tempered fellow. There were those who said this was all “put on,” and that he was a designing sneak; but his high-stepping horses and his splendid dinners soon silenced these doubtful ones, whom the great man entertained for that purpose only, cursing them in his heart whilst he smiled upon them and called them friends.