hundred?"

"Not a bob."

She sighed again, her eyes slid round the room; then in her warm voice
she murmured:

"Guardy, you were my dear Philip's father, weren't you? I've never said
anything; but of course you were. He was so like you, and so is Jock."

Nothing moved in old Heythorp's face. No pagan image consulted with
flowers and song and sacrifice could have returned less answer. Her dear
Philip! She had led him the devil of a life, or he was a Dutchman! And
what the deuce made her suddenly trot out the skeleton like this? But
Mrs. Larne's eyes were still wandering.

"What a lovely house! You know, I think you ought to help me, Guardy.
Just imagine if your grandchildren were thrown out into the street!"

The old man grinned. He was not going to deny his relationship--it was
her look-out, not his. But neither was he going to let her rush him.

"And they will be; you couldn't look on and see it. Do come to my rescue
this once. You really might do something for them."

With a rumbling sigh he answered:

"Wait. Can't give you a penny now. Poor as a church mouse."

"Oh! Guardy

"Fact."

Mrs. Larne heaved one of her most buoyant sighs. She certainly did not
believe him.

"Well!" she said; "you'll be sorry when we come round one night and sing
for pennies under your window. Wouldn't you like to see Phyllis? I left
her in the hall. She's growing such a sweet gairl. Guardy just fifty!"

"Not a rap."

Mrs. Larne threw up her hands. "Well! You'll repent it. I'm at my last
gasp." She sighed profoundly, and the perfume of violets escaped in a
cloud; Then, getting up, she went to the door and called: "Phyllis!"

When the girl entered old Heythorp felt the nearest approach to a flutter
of the heart for many years. She had put her hair up! She was like a
spring day in January; such a relief from that scented humbug, her
mother. Pleasant the touch of her lips on his forehead, the sound of her
clear voice, the sight of her slim movements, the feeling that she did
him credit--clean-run stock, she and that young scamp Jock--better than
the holy woman, his daughter Adela, would produce if anyone were ever
fool enough to marry her, or that pragmatical fellow, his son Ernest.

And when they were gone he reflected with added zest on the six thousand
pounds he was getting for them out of Joe Pillin and his ships. He would
have to pitch it strong in his speech at the general meeting. With
fre