a morning when the
big, shy trout would rise. His game-keeper was waiting at the boathouse,
but the postman had brought some letters that made him put off his sport.

This was annoying, because Osborn hated to be balked and seldom allowed
anything to interfere with his amusements. One letter, from a housemaster
at a famous public school, covered a number of bills, which, the writer
stated somewhat curtly, ought to have been paid. Another announced that
Hayes, the agent for the estate, and a tenant would wait upon Osborn, who
knew what they meant to talk about. He admitted that a landlord had
duties, but his generally demanded attention at an inconvenient time.

Osborn was fifty years of age. He had a ruddy skin and well-proportioned
figure, and was, physically, a rather fine example of the sporting
country gentleman. For all that, there were lines on his forehead and
wrinkles about his eyes; his mouth was loose and sensual, and something
about him hinted at indulgence. His manner, as a rule, was abrupt and
often overbearing.

The library was spacious, the furniture in good taste but getting shabby.
In fact, a certain look of age and shabbiness was typical of the house.
Although the windows were open, the room had a damp smell, and the rows
of books that Osborn never read were touched with mildew. Rain was
plentiful in the north-country dale, coal was dear, and Mrs. Osborn was
forced to study economy, partly because her husband would not.

By and by Osborn turned his glance from the window and fixed it on his
son, who stood waiting across the big oak table. Gerald was a handsome
lad, like his father, but marked by a certain refinement and a hint of
delicacy. Although he felt anxious, his pose was free and graceful and
his look undisturbed. Osborn threw the bills on the table.

"This kind of thing must stop," he said. "I haven't grumbled much,
perhaps not as much as I ought, about your extravagance, but only a fool
imagines he can spend more than he has got."

"We have had such fools in our family," the boy remarked, and stopped
when he saw Osborn's color rise.

"It's a pity it's true," the latter agreed, with a patience he did not
often use. "I'm paying for it now and you will pay a higher price, if you
go on as you promise. You must pull up; I've done enough and am getting
tired of self-denial."

Gerald's smile faded. He had inherited his extravagance from his father,
but felt he must be cautious, although Osbo