the expediency of the adventure. It was not related to his conscience.
He had none.

Now, though, a new decanter was before him; he tried it, drank of it,
judged it decent and drank again. Being decent, it was not heady. It did
not affect him. Cassy had done that. In her was a bouquet which the
vineyard of youth and beauty alone produces. He had hankered for it.
Now, like the decanter, it was before him. He could drink his fill. Then
like the other wine, he could send it away.

XXI

The elder Paliser, seated in the hall of his town house, held a cup. In
the chair, a doge had throned. On the bottom of the cup was an N topped
by a crown. The cup contained hot milk.

Returning, a little before, from a drive, he had been helped up the
steps, into the hall, into the chair. He had not wished to be helped
farther. In the hall, the milk had been brought. As he sipped it, he
looked placid, dignified, evil. He looked very much like a wicked old
doge.

"When I don't move, it is remarkable how well I feel."

His son, to whom he spoke, sat in a sedan-chair which, delicately
enamelled without, was as delicately upholstered within. Through the
window of the chair, only the young man's face showed. If you had not
known better you might have mistaken it for the face of a lady of an
earlier, a politer, though not of a bloodier age. But you would have
known better. The hair, powdered white, was absent; so too were the
patches; so also was the rouge.

Behind the doge's chair a servant stood. Adjacently was a malachite
bench. Beyond was a malachite stairway. The elder Paliser, finishing
with the milk, extended the cup. The servant took it and turned.
Recesses, back of the stairway, engulfed him.

Monty Paliser straightened. The movement disclosed his collar, the white
of his tie.

It was the evening of the fourth day since the wedding. He had motored
in to dine at the Austens'. Cassy had seen him go and had seen too
uninterrupted hours in the music-room. The prospect was consoling.

But, pending the dinner and with an ample quarter of an hour to the
good, he had looked in on his father whom he had found in the hall.
Nothing filial had motived this looking-in. On the surface, it was a
visit of circumstance such as one gentleman may pay to another. But,
beneath the surface, was an object which, when the servant and the cup
had gone, he approached.

"I hope Benny has not been in your way."

"Not in the least. I told h