never have been fit for anything. The longer he lived, the more certain
he became of the prime necessity of virile and decisive action in all
the affairs of life. A word and a blow--and the blow first! Doubts,
hesitations, sentiment the muling and puking of this twilight age--!
And there welled up on his handsome face a smile that was almost
devilish--the tricks of firelight are so many! It faded again in sheer
drowsiness; he slept....

He woke with a start, having a feeling of something out beyond the
light, and without turning his head said: "What's that?" There came a
sound as if somebody had caught his breath. He turned up the lamp.

"Who's there?"

A voice over by the door answered:

"Only I--Larry."

Something in the tone, or perhaps just being startled out of sleep like
this, made him shiver. He said:

"I was asleep. Come in!"

It was noticeable that he did not get up, or even turn his head, now
that he knew who it was, but waited, his half-closed eyes fixed on the
fire, for his brother to come forward. A visit from Laurence was not an
unmixed blessing. He could hear him breathing, and became conscious of
a scent of whisky. Why could not the fellow at least abstain when he was
coming here! It was so childish, so lacking in any sense of proportion
or of decency! And he said sharply:

"Well, Larry, what is it?"

It was always something. He often wondered at the strength of that sense
of trusteeship, which kept him still tolerant of the troubles, amenable
to the petitions of this brother of his; or was it just "blood" feeling,
a Highland sense of loyalty to kith and kin; an old-time quality which
judgment and half his instincts told him was weakness but which, in
spite of all, bound him to the distressful fellow? Was he drunk now,
that he kept lurking out there by the door? And he said less sharply:

"Why don't you come and sit down?"

He was coming now, avoiding the light, skirting along the walls just
beyond the radiance of the lamp, his feet and legs to the waist brightly
lighted, but his face disintegrated in shadow, like the face of a dark
ghost.

"Are you ill, man?"

Still no answer, save a shake of that head, and the passing up of a
hand, out of the light, to the ghostly forehead under the dishevelled
hair. The scent of whisky was stronger now; and Keith thought:

'He really is drunk. Nice thing for the new butler to see! If he can't
behave--'

The figure against the wall heaved a sigh--