Face of father and face of son were near together; the one evidently near death, the other scarcely less pale, quite as still and composed, yet eloquent of health and strength, and early manhood’s pride and power. ‘Ah, Jerome, it is you?’ came in a feeble voice from the patient. ‘I am thankful to hear that you are out of pain, sir. My sister and I have passed some anxious hours.’ ‘Yes; I feel easier now.’ He spoke so slowly, so languidly, and so faintly, that the voice was scarce audible. ‘You sent for me; at least, Dr. Reichhardt said you wished to see me.’ ‘Yes; I have something to say to you. Sit down.’ Jerome seated himself on a chair which stood beside the bed, and waited. Since opening his eyes, and seeing his son stooping over him, Mr. Wellfield had not closed them again. They looked restlessly round—at the ceiling, the wall, the window—anywhere, except into his son’s face. It was some little time before he spoke again; what he had to say seemed to require a considerable effort of some kind. At last, in a voice which had suddenly gained strength, he said: ‘You don’t know what caused me to be so suddenly taken ill to-day.’ ‘I had not thought of the cause. I was disturbed at the fact.’ ‘I had a severe shock, after you went out this morning.’ ‘Indeed!’ said Jerome, with some animation; ‘I hope no carelessness——’ ‘None at all, except the carelessness of circumstances, which is apt to be astonishing sometimes, especially to those who suffer from it,’ he retorted, a sarcastic flavour in his voice. ‘I ought to have spoken to you long ago—long ago.’ Again he paused, and again Jerome waited. He had not the faintest, most conjectural idea of the subject upon which his father desired to speak to him. He was beginning now to wonder vaguely what it could be. They had no confidences, this father and son. Their tastes, habits, and dispositions had always been utterly dissimilar. The elder Wellfield had gone his own way, had led his life of aimless travel from place to place, generally from one fashionable foreign invalid colony to another, accompanied by his daughter and her maid, and by his own manservant. His son had enjoyed the fullest liberty to do the same; to live exactly as seemed good in his own eyes, only receiving long ago the curt recommendation to remember who he was, and that there were some things that a gentleman could never do. ‘No need to tell a gentleman what these things are,’ he had further been informed. ‘If he be a gentleman, he will very soon learn them for himself; if not, scorpions could not whip the knowledge into him.’