Later on he dined in his usual solitary grandeur. He was as carefully dressed as ever. The discipline of his household--like the discipline under which he held himself--was unrelaxed. “What wine is this?” he asked when he had tasted the port. “Yellow seal, sir,” replied the butler confidentially. Sir John sipped again. “It is a new bin,” he said. “Yes, sir. First bottle of the lower bin, sir.” Sir John nodded with an air of self-satisfaction. He was pleased to have proved to himself and to the “damned butler,” who had caught him napping in the library, that he was still a young man in himself, with senses and taste unimpaired. But his hand was at the small of his back as he returned to the library. He was not at all sure about Jack--did not know whether to expect him or not. Jack did not always do what one might have expected him to do under given circumstances. And Sir John rather liked him for it. Perhaps it was that small taint of heredity which is in blood, and makes it thicker than water. “Nothing like blood, sir,” he was in the habit of saying, “in horses, dogs, and men.” And thereafter he usually threw back his shoulders. The good blood that ran in his veins was astir to-night. The incidents of the day had aroused him from the peacefulness that lies under a weight of years (we have to lift the years one by one and lay them aside before we find it), and Sir John Meredith would have sat very upright in his chair were it not for that carping pain in his back. He waited for an hour with his eyes almost continually on the clock, but Jack never came. Then he rang the bell. “Coffee,” he said. “I like punctuality, if you please.” “Thought Mr. Meredith might be expected, sir,” murmured the butler humbly. Sir John was reading the evening paper, or appearing to read it, although he had not his glasses. “Oblige me by refraining from thought,” he said urbanely. So the coffee was brought, and Sir John consumed it in silent majesty. While he was pouring out his second cup--of a diminutive size--the bell rang. He set down the silver coffee-pot with a clatter, as if his nerves were not quite so good as they used to be. It was not Jack, but a note from him. “MY DEAR FATHER,--Circumstances have necessitated the breaking off of my engagement at the last moment. To-morrow's ceremony will not take place. As the above-named circumstances were partly under your control, I need hardly offer an explanation. I leave town and probably England to-night.--I am, your affectionate son, “JOHN MEREDITH.” There were no signs of haste or discomposure. The letter was neatly written in the somewhat large calligraphy, firm, bold, ornate, which Sir John had insisted on Jack's learning. The stationery bore a club crest. It was an eminently gentlemanly communication. Sir John read it and gravely tore it up, throwing it into the fire, where he watched it burn.