and in the well-curtained library, in carpet-slippers
and a smoking-jacket, he built his own monument with infinite care
before an imaginary crowd in an imaginary city of dreams.

There were times, of course, when he was a little uneasy. He had heard
men titter at the Club: Clare had, occasionally, spoken plain words as
to his true position in the House, and he had even, at times, doubts as
to the permanent value of the book on which he was engaged. During
these awful moments he gazed through the rent curtain into a valley of
dead men's bones ruled by a dreary god who had no knowledge of Garrett
Trojan and cared very little for the fortunes of the Trojan House.

But a diligent application to the storehouses of his memory produced
testimonials dragged, for the most part, from reluctant adherents which
served to prove that Garrett Trojan was a great man and the head of a
great family.

He would, however, like some definite act to prove conclusively that he
was head. He had, at times, the unhappy suspicion that an outsider,
regarding the matter superficially, might be led to conclude that Clare
held command. He found that if he interfered at all in family matters
this suspicion was immediately strengthened, and so he confined himself
to his room and watered diligently the somewhat stinted crop of
Illusions.

Nevertheless he felt the necessity of some prominent action that would
still for ever his suspicions of incompetence, and would afford him a
sure foundation on which to build his palace of self-complacency and
personal appreciation. During his latter years he had regarded himself
as his father's probable successor. Harry had seemed a very long way
off in New Zealand, and became, eventually, an improbable myth, for
Garrett had that happy quality bestowed on the ostrich of sticking his
head into the sand of imagination and boastfully concluding that facts
were not there. Harry was a fact, but by continuously asserting that
New Zealand was a long way off and that Harry would never come back,
Harry's existence became a very pleasant fairy-story, like nautical
tales of the sea-serpent and the Bewitching Mermaid. They might be
there, and it was very pleasant to listen to stories about them, but
they had no real bearing on life as he knew it.

Harry's return had, of course, shattered this bubble, and Garrett had
had to yield all hopes of eventual succession. He had, on the whole,
borne it very well, and had come