he professor. He puts down the letter again,
and begins to pace the room. "'Life and spirits.' A sort of young
kangaroo, no doubt. What will the landlady say? I shall leave these
rooms"--with a fond and lingering gaze round the dingy old apartment
that hasn't an article in it worth ten sous--"and take a small
house--somewhere--and-- But--er---- It won't be respectable, I think.
I--I've heard things said about--er--things like that. It's no good
in _looking_ an old fogey, if you aren't one; it's no earthly
use,"--standing before a glass and ruefully examining his
countenance--"in looking fifty, if you are only thirty-four. It will
be a scandal," says the professor mournfully. "They'll cut _her_,
and they'll cut me, and--what the _deuce_ did Wynter mean by leaving
me his daughter? A real live girl of seventeen! It'll be the death
of me," says the professor, mopping his brow.
"What"--wrathfully--"that determined spendthrift meant, by
flinging his family on _my_ shoulders, I---- Oh! _Poor_ old Wynter!"

Here he grows remorseful again. Abuse a man dead and gone, and one,
too, who had been good to him in many ways when he, the professor,
was younger than he is now, and had just quarrelled with a father
who was only too prone to quarrel with anyone who gave him the
chance, seems but a poor thing. The professor's quarrel with his
father had been caused by the young man's refusal to accept a
Government appointment--obtained with some difficulty--for the very
insufficient and, as it seemed to his father, iniquitous reason,
that he had made up his mind to devote his life to science. Wynter,
too, was a scientist of no mean order, and would, probably, have
made his mark in the world, if the world and its pleasures had not
made their mark on him. He had been young Curzon's coach at one
time, and finding the lad a kindred spirit, had opened out to him
his own large store of knowledge, and steeped him in that great sea
of which no man yet has drank enough--for all begin, and leave it,
athirst.

Poor Wynter! The professor, turning in his stride up and down the
narrow, uncomfortable room, one of the many that lie off the Strand,
finds his eyes resting on that other letter--carelessly opened,
barely begun.

From Wynter's solicitor! It seems ridiculous that Wynter should have
_had_ a solicitor. With a sigh, he takes it up, opens it out and
begins to read it. At the end of the second page, he starts,
re-reads a sentence or two, and sud