Then the real meaning of those cryptic headlines and the business-like
letter broke in on Alaric. All the Chichester blood was roused in him.

"Now that's what I call a downright, rotten, blackguardly shame--a
BLACKGUARDLY SHAME!" His voice rose in tones as it increased in
intensity until it almost reached a shriek.

Something was expected of him. At any rate indignation. Well, he was
certainly indignant.

"Closed its doors, indeed!" he went on. "Why should it close its doors?
That's what I want to know! Why--should--it?" and he glared at the
unoffending letter and the non-committal newspaper.

He looked at Ethel, who was surreptitiously concealing a yawn, and was
apparently quite undisturbed by the appalling news.

He found no inspiration there.

Back he went to his mother for support.

"What RIGHT have banks to fail? There should be a law against it. They
should be made to open their doors and keep 'em open. That's what we
give 'em our money for--so that we can take it out again when we want
it."

Poor Mrs. Chichester shook her head sadly.

"Everything gone," she moaned. "Ruined! and at my age!"

"Nice kettle of fish," was all Alaric could think of. He was
momentarily stunned. He turned once more to Ethel. He never relied on
her very much, but at this particular crisis he would like to have some
expression of opinion, however slight--from her.

"I say, Ethel, it's a nice kettle of fish all o-boilin', eh?"

"Shame!" she said quietly, as she found the particular movement of
Grieg she had been looking for. She loved Grieg. He fitted into all her
moods. She played everything he composed exactly the same. She seemed
to think it soothed her. She would play some now and soothe her mother
and Alaric.

She began an impassioned movement which she played evenly and
correctly, and without any unseemly force. Alaric cried out
distractedly: "For goodness' sake stop that, Ethel! Haven't you got any
feelings? Can't you see how upset the mater is? And I am? Stop it.
There's a dear! Let's put our backs into this thing and thrash it all
out. Have a little family meetin', as it were."

Poor Mrs. Chichester repeated, as though it were some refrain: "Ruined!
At my age!"

Alaric sat on the edge of her chair and put his arm around her shoulder
and tried to comfort her.

"Don't you worry, mater," he said. "Don't worry. I'll go down and tell
'em what I think of 'em--exactly what I think of 'em. They can't play
the fool