“You've got to be careful and do what you 're told,” said the physician. “Let's have another glass of port before we go up to Agatha,” said Matthew, reaching out for the decanter. Thus father and son tried to throw dust into each other's eyes, so that each should regard the other as the happiest of men. The servant entered, bearing a tray with the letters that had arrived by the evening post. Matthew glanced at the addresses. “Will you excuse me?” he said courteously. And Sylvester, trained in a brusquer school of manners, felt a great respect for his father's old-world politeness to a guest. Matthew opened two envelopes and glanced cursorily at their contents. Over the third letter he paused, and his lips twitched as he read. Then without comment he handed it to Sylvester. It was a long letter from Ella, written that morning. Amid many feminine explanations and ambiguities she announced the fact of the downfall of the Walden Art Colony and her marriage with Roderick in a fortnight's time. “This upsets all my calculations,” said Sylvester, gravely. “I thought the affair was as good as broken off.” “It is only natural,” said Matthew. “Natural! How?” “The chivalry of woman, Syl.” Respect kept Sylvester from contradiction, but his lips curled somewhat ironically. “If a woman won't have a man when he is up, will she rush into his arms when he is down?” “It often happens, my boy,” replied the old man. Sylvester took one or two turns about the room. Then he paused by the table and lifted his wine-glass. “Here's to our friend Roderick's confusion,” said he. “I'm afraid I have been slack in carrying out your wishes, but now I'll use every means in my power to stop the marriage.” Matthew deliberately set down the glass which he happened to be holding in his hand, and remained for a moment in deep thought. Then he spoke. “I can't drink a toast like that, nor must you. I release you entirely from your promise. I have reason to believe I may have misjudged Roderick, and I have no right to interfere. It is my wish that the marriage should take place.” This was final. Sylvester made an Englishman's awkward little bow of acquiescence. “I have no personal feelings in the matter, as you are aware,” said he. “On the other hand, if Roderick should be proved to be--well, as undesirable as you thought, it would be wise to let Ella know, I suppose?” “I would not have her marry a scamp,” replied Matthew, in a low voice. “It would break my heart. But, O God! Syl, what is a scamp? Which of us dare judge his fellow?” He was feeling utterly weary, and from his prostration came the personal utterance which his ordinary strength rigidly restrained. Sylvester, unaware of the stirring of great depths, replied coldly, “A man with a clean record behind him, like either of us, is certainly in a position to judge.” “And pity?”