She bustled cheerfully about the room, humming a little tune and talking to him, lightly and with no apparent purpose. He watched the gulls fly past the open window, his eyes rested on a golden flash of sun that struck some shining roof in the Cove, but his mind was back in the early days when he had played his game with the best and had seen the bright side of the world. "He was a rake, Jack Crayle"--he seemed scarcely conscious that Clare was in the room--"a rake but a good heart, and an amusing fellow too. I remember meeting old Rendle and Hawdon Sallust--Hawdon of the eighties, you know--not the old man--he kept at home--all three of them at White's, Rendle and Sallust and Crayle; Jack bet Rendle he wouldn't stop the next man he met in the street and claim him as an old friend and bring him in--and, by Jove, he took it and brought him in, too--sort of tramp chap he was, too--dirty, untidy fellow--but Rendle was game serious--by Gad, he was. Said he was an old friend that had fallen on evil times--gave him a drink and won the bet--'63 that was--the year Bailey won that polo match against old Tom Radley--all the town was talking of it. By Gad, he could ride, Bailey could. Why----" "It's time for your medicine, father," said Clare, breaking ruthlessly in upon the reminiscences. "Eh, dear, yes," he said, looking at her curiously. "You're never late, Clare, always up to time. Yes, yes, well, well; in '63 that was. I remember it like yesterday--old Tom--particular friend he was of mine then, although we broke afterwards--my fault too, probably, about a horse it was. I----" But Clare gave him his medicine, first tying a napkin round his neck lest she should spill the drops. He looked at her, smiling, over the napkin. "You were always a girl for method," he said again; "not like Harry." She looked at him quickly, but could guess nothing; she was suddenly frightened, as she so often was when he laughed like that. She always expected that some announcement would follow. It was almost as if he had threatened her. "Harry?" she said. "No. But he is very like he used to be in some ways. It is nice to have him back again--but--well, he will find Pendragon rather different from Auckland, I'm afraid." Sir Jeremy said nothing. He lay there without moving; Clare untied the napkin, and put back the medicine, and wheeled the chair into a sunnier part of the room and away from the window. "You must get on with Harry, Clare," he said suddenly, sharply. "Why, yes," she answered, laughing a little uneasily. "Of course we get on. Only his way of looking at things was always a little different--even, perhaps, a little difficult to understand"; and then, after a little pause, "I am stupid, I know. It was always hard for me to see like other people." But he was not listening to her. He was smiling at the sun, and the birds on the lawn, and the flashing gold of the distant sand.