Tony, who was entirely unexpectant of this uncompromising attitude, having taken it for granted that by some means or other the way had been made smooth for him, retorted somewhat sharply: “You're not likely to.” “Then I wonder,” said Aline, “at your audacity in coming to this house.” She turned and marched back to the door, her little figure very erect and her dark eyes blazing. Jimmie intercepted her. “Tony came at my request, my child.” For the first and only time in her life she cast a look of anger upon Jimmie. “Let me pass, please,” she said, like an outraged princess; and waving Jimmie aside, she made the exit of offended majesty. The two men looked stupidly at each other. Their position was ignominious. “I did it for the best, my boy,” said Jimmie, taking up a pipe which he began to fill mechanically. He was just the kind creature of happier days. The young fellow's heart was touched. After a minute's silence he committed a passionate indiscretion. “I wish to God you would tell me there is something hidden beneath this ghastly story, and that it's quite different from what it appears to be!” Jimmie drew himself up and looked the young man between the eyes. “That's a question I discuss with no human being,” said he. “I beg your pardon,” said Tony Merewether, in sincere apology. “I would not have taken such a liberty if it had n't been a matter of life and death for me. Perhaps you think I ought to do more or less as Aline asks me; but she is too precious to purchase with an infernal lie. I'm hanged if I'll do it, and I don't think you're the man to misunderstand my frankness.” Jimmie had lit his pipe during the foregoing speech. He drew two or three meditative puffs. “Have as little to do with lies, my boy, as ever you can,” said he. “And cheer up, all is sure to come right in the end.” He was sunk in reflection for a long time after the young man had gone, and again for a long time after Aline had done remorseful penance for her loss of temper. Then he went out for a walk and brought back something in his pocket. At dinner-time he was unusually preoccupied. When the meal was over, he fished up a black bottle from beneath the table, and going to the sideboard, came back with a couple of wineglasses. Aline watched him as though he were performing some rite in black magic. “This is rich fruity port,” said he, filling the glasses. “Evans, the grocer, told me I should get nothing like it at the price in London. You are to drink it. It will do you good.” Aline, still penitent, obeyed meekly. “How could you be so extravagant, Jimmie?” she said in mild protest. “It must have cost quite three shillings.” “And sixpence,” said Jimmie, unabashed. He lifted up his glass. “Now here's to our _Wanderjahr_, or as much of it as we can run to.” “Whatever do you mean, Jimmie?”