p rolled in the
trough; Charles rolled in his cabin, and would not be comforted. As
we approached the Irish coast, I scrambled up on deck in a violent
gale, and retired again somewhat precipitately to announce to my
brother-in-law that we had just come in sight of the Fastnet Rock
Lighthouse. Charles merely turned over in his berth and groaned.
"I don't believe it," he answered. "I expect it is probably Colonel
Clay in another of his manifold disguises!"

At Liverpool, however, the Adelphi consoled him. We dined
luxuriously in the Louis Quinze restaurant, as only millionaires
can dine, and proceeded next day by Pullman car to London.

We found Amelia dissolved in tears at a domestic cataclysm. It
seemed that Cesarine had given notice.

Charles was scarcely home again when he began to bethink him of
the least among his investments. Like many other wealthy men, my
respected connection is troubled more or less, in the background of
his consciousness, by a pervading dread that he will die a beggar.
To guard against this misfortune--which I am bound to admit nobody
else fears for him--he invested, several years ago, a sum of two
hundred thousand pounds in Consols, to serve as a nest-egg in case
of the collapse of Golcondas and South Africa generally. It is
part of the same amiable mania, too, that he will not allow the
dividend-warrants on this sum to be sent to him by post, but
insists, after the fashion of old ladies and country parsons, upon
calling personally at the Bank of England four times a year to claim
his interest. He is well known by sight to not a few of the clerks;
and his appearance in Threadneedle Street is looked forward to with
great regularity within a few weeks of each lawful quarter-day.

So, on the morning after our arrival in town, Charles observed to
me, cheerfully, "Sey, I must run into the City to-day to claim my
dividends. There are two quarters owing."

I accompanied him in to the Bank. Even that mighty official, the
beadle at the door, unfastened the handle of the millionaire's
carriage. The clerk who received us smiled and nodded. "How much?"
he asked, after the stereotyped fashion.

"Two hundred thousand," Charles answered, looking affable.

The clerk turned up the books. "Paid!" he said, with
decision. "What's your game, sir, if I may ask you?"

"Paid!" Charles echoed, drawing back.

The clerk gazed across at him. "Yes, Sir Charles," he answered, in
a somewhat severe tone. "You mus