The clock struck half-past three and he went upstairs to see his father. The old man seldom left his bed now. He grew weaker every day and the end could not be far away. He had no longer any desire to live, and awaited with serene confidence the instant of departure, being firmly convinced that Death was too good a gentleman to treat a Trojan scurvily, and that, whatever the next world might contain, he would at least be assured of the respect and deference that the present world had shown him. His mind dwelt continually on his early days, and, even when there was no one present to listen, he repeated anecdotes and reminiscences for the benefit of the world at large. His face seemed to have dwindled considerably, but his eyes were always alive--twinkling over the bedclothes like lights in a dark room. His mouth never moved, only his hand, claw-like and yellow as parchment, clutched the bedclothes and sometimes waved feebly in the air to emphasise his meaning. He had grown strangely intolerant of Clare, and although he submitted to her offices as usual, did so reluctantly and with no good grace; she had served him faithfully and diligently for twenty years and this was her reward. She said nothing, but she laid it to Harry's charge. Sir Jeremy's eyes twinkled when he saw his son. "Hey, Harry, my boy--all of 'em out, aren't they? Devilish good thing--no one to worry us. Just give the pillows a punch and pull that table nearer--that's right. Just pull that blind up--I can't see the sea." The room had changed its character within the last week. It was a place of silences and noiseless tread, and the scent of flowers mingled with the intangible odour of medicine. A great fire burnt in the open fireplace, and heavy curtains had been hung over the door to prevent draughts. Harry moved silently about the room, flung up the blind to let in the sun, propped up the pillows, and then sat down by the bed. "You're looking better, father," he said; "you'll soon be up again." "The devil I will," said Sir Jeremy. "No, it's not for me. I'm here for a month or two, and then I'm off. I've had my day, and a damned good one too. What do you think o' that girl now, Harry--she's fine--what?" He produced from under the pillow a photograph, yellow with age, of a dancer--jet-black hair and black eyes, her body balanced on one leg, her hands on her hips. "Anonita Sendella--a devilish fine woman, by gad--sixty years ago that was--and Tom Buckley and I were in the running. He had the money and I had the looks, although you wouldn't think it now. She liked me until she got tired of me and she died o' drink--not many like that nowadays." He gazed at the photograph whilst his eyes twinkled. "Legs--by Heaven! what legs!" He chuckled. "Wouldn't do for Clare to see that; she was shaking my pillows this mornin' and I was in a deuce of a fright--thought the thing would tumble out."