Not at all," said he. "At my death, it would have been his to
dispose of as he pleased. Up to my death, he would have had no more
claim to deal with it than you have. Look at things from my point of
view, and don't be idiotic. I am considering my debt to Oswald, and
therefore, logically, my debt to the country. It is twenty thousand
pounds. I'm going to pay it. The only question is--and the question has
kept Edith and myself awake the last two nights--is what's the best
thing to do with it? Of course I could give it to some fund,--or
several funds,--but it's a lot of money and I should like it to be used
to the best advantage. Now what do you say?"

"I say," said I, "that you Croesuses make a half-pay Major of
Artillery's head reel. If I were like you, I should go into a shop and
buy a super-dreadnought, and stick a card on it with a drawing pin, and
send it to the Admiralty with my compliments."

"Duncan," said Lady Fenimore, severely, "don't be flippant."

Heaven knows I was in no flippant mood; but it was worth a foolish jest
to bring a smile to Sir Anthony's face. Also this grave, conscientious
proposition had its humorous side. It was so British. It reminded me of
the story of Swift, who, when Gay and Pope visited him and refused to
sup, totted up the cost of the meal and insisted on their accepting
half-a-crown apiece. It reminded me too of the rugged old Lancashire
commercial blood that was in him--blood that only shewed itself on the
rarest and greatest of occasions--the blood of his grandfather, the
Manchester cotton-spinner, who founded the fortunes of his house. Sir
Anthony knew less about cotton than he did about ballistics and had
never sat at a desk in a business office for an hour in his life; but
now and again the inherited instinct to put high impulses on a
scrupulously honest commercial basis asserted itself in the quaintest
of fashions.

"There's some sense in what he says, Edith," remarked Sir Anthony.
"It's only vanity that prompted us to ear-mark this sum for something
special."

"Vanity!" cried Lady Fenimore. "You weren't by any chance thinking of
advertising our gift or contribution or whatever you like to call it in
the Daily Mail?"

"Heaven forbid, my dear," Sir Anthony replied warmly; and he stood, his
hands under his coat-tails and his gaitered legs apart, regarding her
with the air of a cock-sparrow accused of murdering his young, or a
sensitive jockey repudiating a suggestion of croo