fry. "Somehow, not quite
the thing. I'll come back with you to-morrow."

"Let me send for Dr. Dawney, Uncle?"

"No--no! Plenty of him when I get home. Very good young fellow, as
doctors go, but I can't stand his puddin's--slops and puddin's, and all
that trumpery medicine on the top. Send me Dominique, my dear--I'll put
myself to rights a bit!" He fingered his unshaven cheek, and clutched
the gown together on his chest. "Got this from the landlord. When you
come back we'll have a little talk!"

He was asleep when she came into the room an hour later. Watching his
uneasy breathing, she wondered what it was that he was going to say.

He looked ill! And suddenly she realised that her thoughts were not of
him.... When she was little he would take her on his back; he had built
cocked hats for her and paper boats; had taught her to ride; slid her
between his knees; given her things without number; and taken his payment
in kisses. And now he was ill, and she was not thinking of him! He had
been all that was most dear to her, yet before her eyes would only come
the vision of another.

Mr. Treffry woke suddenly. "Not been asleep, have I? The beds here are
infernal hard."

"Uncle Nic, won't you give me news of him?"

Mr. Treffry looked at her, and Christian could not bear that look.

"He's safe into Italy; they aren't very keen after him, it's so long ago;
I squared 'em pretty easily. Now, look here, Chris!"

Christian came close; he took her hand.

"I'd like to see you pull yourself together. 'Tisn't so much the
position; 'tisn't so much the money; because after all there's always
mine--" Christian shook her head. "But," he went on with shaky
emphasis, "there's the difference of blood, and that's a serious thing;
and there's this anarch--this political affair; and there's the sort of
life, an' that's a serious thing; but--what I'm coming to is this,
Chris--there's the man!"

Christian drew away her hand. Mr. Treffry went on:

"Ah! yes. I'm an old chap and fond of you, but I must speak out what I
think. He's got pluck, he's strong, he's in earnest; but he's got a
damned hot temper, he's an egotist, and--he's not the man for you. If you
marry him, as sure as I lie here, you'll be sorry for it. You're not your
father's child for nothing; nice fellow as ever lived, but soft as
butter. If you take this chap, it'll be like mixing earth and ironstone,
and they don't blend!" He dropped his head back