“We had better wait until we get indoors,” said Alicia, reprovingly. As she was five years older than Dora (who herself was ten years older than Hugh), she considered her sister’s experience of the world somewhat immature. Hugh laughed, being familiar with Alicia’s habits. They were, doubtless, about to ask his advice concerning the finances of the village goose-club, or some such solemn matter which could not be discussed save with closed doors. It was only after he had allowed them to refresh him with tea in their comfortable drawing-room, that he alluded to the tabooed subject. He lit a cigarette--he could have lit the Queen’s Pipe had he so chosen, for they indulged him greatly--and enquired in what way he could serve them. They looked puzzled for a moment. Then Dora’s countenance cleared. “Oh--the letter we were going to write to you! No. It wasn’t to ask you for anything. It----” She looked across at Alicia, who glanced back at her with an air of intelligence and readiness. “The fact is, dear Hugh,” said the elder, “we have rather unfortunate news to give you. Your Uncle Geoffrey is not very well.” Though he expressed his sorrow, he smiled at the anti-climax. The dear, fussy sisters! “In fact, his heart is seriously affected,” continued Alicia, gravely, “and he can’t possibly live very long.” “The deuce he can’t,” said Hugh, who began to lose sight of the humourous aspect of things. “How do you know?” “We received a long letter from him this morning, in which he refers to other things besides.” “You had better let me see it,” said Hugh. “Would you get it, Dora?” said Alicia, and then, while the younger sister was fetching the document from a secretaire by the window: “I don’t bear malice. I am grieved to hear of Geoffrey Colman’s affliction, and I hope he is prepared to meet his end like a Christian and a gentleman, but I consider his conduct towards you has been simply shameful.” Hugh took the letter from Dora’s hand and read it through. “I can get on without his money, my dears,” he said, bravely. “Of course you can,” said Alicia, proudly. “A Colman need not be beholden to any man. But that does not condone anything in your uncle’s behaviour.” He rose with a laugh, curled his moustache to a fiercer angle, and put his arm round Dora’s shoulder, who was standing, and addressed Alicia. “What does it matter? Don’t trouble your dear kind heads about it. I’m sorry for the poor old chap. He was kind to me when a boy--has done more for me than I ever did for him. I came to see how you two were getting on, and to comfort my heart with a bottle of grandfather’s old Madeira. So let us be happy.” “What a dear, noble fellow you are, to take it like that,” said Dora, kissing him. “My dear child,” he replied, with a laugh, “how often am I to tell you that I am not a graven image?”