een thought to show it but
little. He was himself surprised at his brazen assurance and had to
recognise that at the point things had come to now he was profoundly
obstinate and quiet.

"The pencil--the brush? They're not the weapons of a gentleman," Mr.
Carteret pronounced.

"I was sure that would be your feeling. I repeat that I mention them
only because you once said you intended to do something for me, as the
phrase is, and I thought you oughtn't to do it in ignorance."

"My ignorance was better. Such knowledge isn't good for me."

"Forgive me, my dear old friend," Nick kept it bravely up. "When you're
better you'll see it differently."

"I shall never be better now."

"Ah no," Nick insisted; "it will really do you good after a little.
Think it over quietly and you'll be glad I've stopped humbugging."

"I loved you--I loved you as my son," the old man wailed.

He sank on his knee beside the bed and leaned over him tenderly. "Get
better, get better, and I'll be your son for the rest of your life."

"Poor Dormer--poor Dormer!" Mr. Carteret continued to lament.

"I admit that if he had lived I probably shouldn't have done it," said
Nick. "I daresay I should have deferred to his prejudices even though
thinking them narrow."

"Do you turn against your father?" his host asked, making, to disengage
his arm from the young man's touch, an effort betraying the irritation
of conscious weakness. Nick got up at this and stood a moment looking
down at him while he went on: "Do you give up your name, do you give up
your country?"

"If I do something good my country may like it." Nick spoke as if he had
thought that out.

"Do you regard them as equal, the two glories?"

"Here comes your nurse to blow me up and turn me out," said Nick.

The nurse had come in, but Mr. Carteret directed to her an audible dry,
courteous "Be so good as to wait till I send for you," which arrested
her in the large room at some distance from the bed and then had the
effect of making her turn on her heel with a professional laugh. She
clearly judged that an old gentleman with the fine manner of his prime
might still be trusted to take care of himself. When she had gone that
personage addressed to his visitor the question for which his deep
displeasure lent him strength. "Do you pretend there's a nobler life
than a high political career?"

"I think the noble life's doing one's work well. One can do it very ill
and be very base and mean i