"I think I could have convinced Wasp to the contrary," said Allen drily; "my mother bathed my ankle, and it is easier this morning." "But you should not have come down to breakfast," said Mrs. Hill. "It would have put my father out, had I not come, mother." "Quite so," said Mr. Hill; "I am glad to hear that you try to behave as a son. Besides, self-denial makes a man," added Mr. Hill, who never denied himself anything. "Strange, Allen, I did not notice that you limped--and I am an observant man." "I was seated here before you came down," his son reminded him. "True," said Mr. Hill, rising; "it is one of my late mornings. I was dreaming of an opera. I intend, Allen, to compose an opera. Saccharissa," thus he addressed Mrs. Hill, who was called plain Sarah, "do you hear? I intend to immortalise myself." "I hear," said Saccharissa, quite unmoved. She had heard before, of these schemes to immortalise Mr. Hill. "I shall call my opera 'Gwendoline,'" said Mr. Hill, passing his hand through his hair; "it will be a Welsh opera. I don't think any one has ever composed a Welsh opera, Allen." "I can't call one to mind, sir," said Allen, his eyes on his plate. "The opening chorus," began Mr. Hill, full of his theme, "will be----" "One moment, sir," interrupted Allen, who was not in the mood for this trifling, "I want to ask you a question." "No! no! no! You will disturb the current of my thoughts. Would you have the world lose a masterpiece, Allen?" "It is a very simple question, sir. Will you see Mr. Strode to-day?" Hill, who was looking out of the window and humming a theme for his opening chorus, turned sharply. "Certainly not. I am occupied." "Mr. Strode is your oldest and best friend," urged Allen. "He has proved that by taking money from me," said Hill, with a deep laugh. "Why should I see him?" "I want you to put in a good word for me and Eva. Of course," Allen raised his eyes abruptly and looked directly at his father, "you expected to see him this morning?" "No, I didn't," snapped the composer. "Strode and I were friends at school and college, certainly, but we met rarely in after life. The last time I saw him was when he brought his wife down here." "Poor Lady Jane," sighed Mrs. Hill, who was seated with folded hands. "You may well say that, Saccharissa. She was wedded to a clown----" "I thought Mr. Strode was a clever and cultured man," said Allen drily. "He should have been," said Mr. Hill, waving his hand and then sticking it into the breast of his shirt. "I did my best to form him. But flowers will not grow in clay, and Strode was made of stodgy clay. A poor creature, and very quarrelsome." "That doesn't sound like stodgy clay, sir."