“As a matter of fact,” said he, looking at his plate, “I have not disinherited Tommy; I have not discontinued his allowance, and I have placed a very large sum of money to his credit at the bank.” Clementina knitted her brows and stared at him. The man was a greater puzzle than ever. Was he lying? If Tommy had found himself in opulence, he would have told her. Tommy was veracity incarnate. “The boy hasn’t a penny to his name—nothing except his mother’s fifty pounds a year.” He met her black, keen eyes steadily. “I am telling you the facts. He can’t have inquired about his bank balance recently.” He passed his hand across his forehead, as realisation of the past strange period came to him. “I suppose he can’t have done so, as he has never written to acknowledge the—the large amount of money.” The man was telling the truth. It was mystifying. “Then why in the name of Bedlam did you play the fool with him like that?” “That is another matter,” said he, lowering his eyes. “For the sake of an answer, let us say that I wanted to test his devotion to his art.” “We can say it as much as we please, but I don’t believe it.” “I will ask you, Clementina,” said he, courteously, “as a great personal favour to let it pass at that.” “All right,” said Clementina. He went on with his dinner. Presently another thing struck him. He was to find a plaguey lot of things to strike him in connection with his lunacy. “If Tommy was penniless,” said he, “will you explain how he has managed to take this expensive holiday in France.” “Look here, let us talk of something else,” she replied. “I’m sick of Tommy.” Visions of Tommy’s whooping joy, of Etta’s radiance; when they should hear the astounding news, floated before her. She could hear him telling the chit of a girl to put on her orange-blossoms and go out with him at once and get married. She could hear Etta say: “Darling Clementina, do run out and buy me some orange-blossoms.” Much the two innocents cared for darling Clementina! There were times when she really did not know whether she wanted to take them both in her arms in a great splendid hug, or to tie them up together in a sack and throw them into the Seine. “I’m sick of Tommy,” she declared. But the normal brain of the cultivated man had begun to work. “Clementina,” said he, “it is you that have been paying Tommy’s expenses.” “Well, suppose I have?” she replied, defiantly. She added quickly, womanlike divining the reproach to Tommy, underlying Quixtus’s challenge: “He’s a child and I’m an old woman. I had the deuce’s own job to make him accept. I couldn’t go careering about France all by myself—I could, as a matter of practical fact—I could career all over Gehenna if I chose—but it wouldn’t have been gay. He sacrificed his pride to give me a holiday. What have you to say against it?”