cousin, indignantly.

"Not you!" said the other, letting himself down on to the keyboard of
the piano with a loud musical crash, and laughing heartily all the time.
"Why don't you get on with your work? Anyone would think you were in
training for a cat-gut scraper at a low theatre instead of for an
officer and a gentleman."

"Mark, old chap," said Sir Richard, good-humouredly, as, with rather a
rueful look, he picked up his broken model, "every man to his taste. I
like music; you like dogs."

"Yes; and they make a precious sight better music than ever you do.
Soldier! Pooh! You haven't the heart of a cockroach in you. Thank
goodness, you'll soon have to do your exam. That'll open your eyes, and
I shall be glad of it. If I were you, I'd try for an engagement in a
band somewhere, for you'll never get a commission."

"Perhaps not," said Sir Richard, quietly. "But what's the matter with
you, old chap? Been having a row with Draycott?"

"Draycott's a bumptious, pedantic old fool. Fancies he knows
everything. A brute!"

"Take a couple of pills, Mark; your liver's out of order."

"Put an angel's liver out of order to be here! I won't put up with much
more of it, and so I'll tell him. I shall dress as I like, and do as I
like, even if I haven't got a handle to my name. Sir Richard, indeed!--
a pattern for me to follow! Next time the fat old idiot say's that to
me, I'll throw the books at his head."

"Oh, that's it, is it?"

"Yes; that's it, is it!" cried Mark Frayne in an angry tone. "I tell
you I'm sick of it!"

"Nonsense! What had you been doing?" said Richard, fighting down a
feeling of resentment, and looking smilingly at his cousin.

"What's that to you?" growled Mark.

"Not much; but I wanted to help the lame dog over the stile."

"Look here," cried Mark, fiercely; "none of that. If you want to insult
me, say so right out, and then I shall know what you mean. None of your
covert allusions."

Richard Frayne laughed outright, and his cousin took a step forward
menacingly.

"Why, what has come to you?" cried the former. "Don't be so peppery. I
want to help you, if I can."

"Do you?" cried Mark, eagerly. "There, I'm sorry I spoke so sharply.
That brute Simpson has been writing to Draycott."

"Simpson, the tailor? What has he got to write about?"

Mark Frayne scowled, and gave a kick out with his leg, but did not
answer.

"Have you been running a bill with him?"

Mark nodded.