ime to dress for dinner, but Harry sat there, forgetting time
and place in the unchanging question, How would it all work out?

"By Gad, it's Tom! Hullo, old man, I was just thinking of you. Comin'
round to Horrocks' to-night for a game? Supper at Galiani's--but it's
damned cold. I don't know where that sun's got to. I've been
wandering up and down the street all day and I can't find the place.
I've forgotten the number--I can't remember whether it was 23 or 33,
and I keep getting into that passage. There I am again! Bring a
light, old man--it's so dark. What's that? Who's there? Can't you
answer? Darn you, come out, you----" He sat up in bed, quivering all
over. Harry put his hand on his arm.

"It's all right, father," he said. "No one's here--only myself."

"Ugh! I was dreaming--" he answered, lying down again. "Let's have
some light--not that electric glare. Candles!"

Harry was sitting in the corner by the bed away from the fire. He was
about to rise and move the candles into a clump on the mantelpiece when
there was a tap on the door and some one came in. It was Robin.

"Grandfather, are you awake? Aunt Clare told me to look in on my way
up to dress and see if you wanted anything?"

The firelight was on his face. He looked very young as he stood there
by the bed. His face was flushed in the light of the fire. Harry's
heart beat furiously, but he made no movement and said no word.

Robin bent over the bed to catch his grandfather's answer, and he saw
his father.

"I beg your pardon." he stammered. "I didn't know----" He waited for
a moment as though he were going to say something, or expected his
father to speak. Then he turned and left the room.

"Let's have the candles," said Sir Jeremy, as though he had not noticed
the interruption, and Harry lit them.

The old man sank off to sleep again, and Harry fell back into his own
gloomy thoughts once more. They were always meeting like that, and on
each occasion there was need for the same severe self-control. He had
to remind himself continually of their treatment of him, of Robin's
coldness and reserve. At times he cursed himself for a fool, and then
again it seemed the only way out of the labyrinth.

His love for his son had changed its character. He had no longer that
desire for equality of which he had made, at first, so much. No, the
two generations could never see in line; he must not expect that. But
he thought of Robi