There was a flash in this of the more than dissimilarity of tastes which had, _au fond_, existed always between father and son—the absolute antagonism—until now delicately glazed over into a semblance of indifference, but ready to burst forth the moment that really deep feelings were touched. An angry, bitter retort was upon Jerome’s tongue—the retort that his father, in purchasing those ‘years of prosperity and enjoyment,’ of which he made such a merit, had incidentally purchased with them years of something else—which years the young man seemed to see now very clearly unrolling themselves before him—drear and bitter. But his father was about to leave the world—there could be little doubt of that—and there certainly was something in his manner of doing it very strongly suggestive of his having done the best for himself while he lived—denied himself no luxury, made no sacrifice, not even that very commonly necessary sacrifice of early avowing an unpleasant truth because it is right to do so—and of his then quietly slipping away, and leaving the son whom he had never accustomed to work, and the daughter whom he had taught to look upon luxury and refinement as matters of course, to battle as best they might with adverse circumstances. This view of the case certainly did rush very strongly over Jerome’s mind. His hot southern blood drove some very bitter, sarcastic comments to his lips; but suddenly another feeling prevailed over them—a feeling of cool, calm calculation; a sense that there must be some way out of all this coil, and a private resolve that this man who had the Abbey now, should not keep it very long. Mastering his hot and furious anger, he said coldly: ‘It would be useless to dispute the matter. The damage, it appears, is done. Wellfield has passed away from us, and the poor money you got for it has passed away too. But I suppose your affairs are in the hands of some man of business?’ ‘Yes; Netley of Manchester knows all my concerns. No doubt there will be a letter from him immediately. He will have to give you information, and settle it all up.’ ‘Netley of Manchester!’ said Jerome, deliberately making a note of it. ‘Where does he live?’ ‘His offices are at 57, Canongate.’ Another note. Then Jerome said: ‘Have you any idea whether everything will go—whether not even a pittance will be left?—enough for Avice to live upon, while I try to find something to do?’ He spoke coldly and hardly, and in a matter-of-fact tone; but as he uttered the words, a vision rose before him of Sara Ford; of her eyes, as he had whispered to her, ‘And do you understand?’ He shivered a little. Mr. Wellfield, too, was moved by his words; by this stern bringing to reality and commonplace of the whole affair. He gave a slight groan as he turned his head restlessly, saying: ‘I don’t know. O God! I know nothing about it. But’—his voice grew almost fierce—‘remember, sir, as long as you have a penny, your sister remains with you.’