CHAPTER X

‘All this is very nice,’ said the fair damsel, who had refused to accept another pennyweight of gold, ‘but the sun is going down, and I _must_ see the exact spot where the battle was fought, where Mr. Newstead lay, and where the tall robber fell dead; also where old Jack stood when he “opened business on his own account”—I should like to have been there, I confess.’

‘Next time, Miss Jean, we will let you know,’ replied Southwater; ‘but come with me, and I will show you all the points of the attack, and where our camp stood.’

Scrambling up the narrow path, the young people reached the conical flat-topped boulder near the summit, where the ‘frontal attack’ of the gold-robbers had been made. Exclaiming that ‘she was out of breath,’ the girl seated herself upon the historic stone—to be famous henceforth in the legends which are so apt to grow and develop with age.

‘What a curious sensation it must be to be shot at!’ she said, gazing dreamily over the trackless Waste, where the red sunset spread a wondrous blazonry, weirdly gorgeous in the pageant of the fading eve. ‘How did you feel, Mr. Southwater?’

‘There’s no time to feel anything unless you’re hit. Newstead said it was like a crack with a stone—hardly realised till you drop; then, of course, you are all the time wanting to get at the other fellow. At least that’s my experience. It was all so sudden: I had only just written home to my friends, saying it was absurd to think of a goldfield as rude and lawless—that, in fact, it was _much_ safer than London at midnight. A minute or two afterwards, we were fighting for our lives and hard-earned gold; more surprising still—but—perhaps——’

‘Oh! go on, pray,’ pleaded Miss Jean, whose interest was now fully aroused, as was evidenced by her sparkling eyes and changing colour—‘what _could_ be more surprising?’

‘I only meant that it was queer, though folks at home wouldn’t realise it, that our best and boldest defender, poor Dick Andrews, who really won the fight for us, turns out to have been a notorious criminal, known in connection with the death of an Inspector of police in another colony.’

‘Poor fellow! perhaps he had suffered injustice—one never knows. What became of him?’

‘He was mortally wounded in the engagement, and made an edifying end next day, happy in the thought that his wife and children were provided for.’

The girl was silent for a little space, and then said in a changed voice, ‘Can you tell me, Mr. Southwater, can any one explain, why what are called bad men are so much more interesting than ordinary well-behaved people? They should not be, but that they are there’s no denying.’

‘Hard to say—must be a natural sympathy for what Marcus Clarke calls “the thoroughbred upstanding criminal.” Sort of glamour—particularly affecting women, strange to say. Men understand the breed better. And yet any one more unlike the received notion of the hardened outlaw than poor Dick couldn’t be.’

‘Now, what was he like?’

‘The regular Sydney-side native. Tall, spare, muscular, or, rather, sinewy of frame, with regular features, chiefly unrelaxed, but wearing a pleasant expression at times. Low-voiced, and unpretending in demeanour, though wonderfully good at all manner of bush work. Reserved, for reason good, as may be imagined, yet respected “on the field,” and held to be liberal in all that concerned his fellow-workers. A perfect horseman, as a matter of course.’

‘I shall begin to cry if we go on much longer,’ said the fair Jean, ‘and Mrs. Lilburne will be mildly reproachful, dear soul! if we are late for dinner.’

So these young people lost no time in joining their friends, and the buggy pulled up at the Palace Hotel in something like ‘record time’ between ‘the Mount’ and the city, which, indeed, had been carefully noted, and was publicly known to all who had pretensions to sporting accuracy.

The next morning saw the departure of Alister Lilburne and his wife from the Gold City, which had been to her a refuge, nay, a home—a retreat from the pressure of care, the uncertainty of position, for all these days; departure from the people whom she had learned to love, and who had loved her with the deep, abiding conviction based upon gratitude and respect, which outlives ephemeral popularity—becoming welded into a cult or, as in Eastern lands, into a Faith. Whatever might have been the feelings with which the ordinary population of Pilot Mount regarded their late Hospital Superintendent, a handsome and indeed munificent endowment, to be devoted to the building and fitting up of a new wing, testified to Elinor Lilburne’s enduring interest in the welfare of the institution to which she had devoted some of the best years of her life.

* * * * *

Arnold Banneret’s financial status had now developed by such ‘leaps and bounds,’ to use the handy parliamentary phrase, that he found himself placed in an entirely novel position—one, indeed, of which he had never had previous experience; nor had he, in any mood of day-dreaming, been confronted with such. Yet, now, a decision must be made—a momentous question settled definitely. His income, large even for a golden claimholder, was annually increasing. Money was no object, to speak familiarly, yet it was the question before the House—the Legislative Council represented by himself, personally; and indeed he had been an M.L.C. for some years, in right of which, and a talisman worn on his watch chain, he was entitled to free railway passage throughout the length and breadth of New South Wales. It was a pity that it did not apply to all British dominions, some of his fellow-legislators thought; but that privilege could not be arranged just yet. Still, in that day, when the United States of Australasia, with a population of a hundred millions, dominating the South Pacific, from New Guinea to Victoria Land within the Antarctic Circle, in alliance, too, with the United States and the Dominion of Canada, form a Pan-Anglican Power, prompt and efficient to regulate the world’s war and peace, who shall say them nay?

The voyage home! Of this momentous ‘trip,’ as it was called in light, almost sportive reference, the now successful, honoured, and wealthy Australian proprietor had often thought. But neither the means nor the opportunity for such a decisive movement had as yet been forthcoming. The children had been too young, the financial outlook too restricted, in his earlier married life. Not that he or his wife had any ardent desire to make the change. They were attached to their native land; the climate agreed with them—they were not sure that the rigorous seasons of the ancestral isle would suit the immature brood, in which were centred the hopes and fears, the joys and sorrows, of their daily life. It had been relegated by consent to the region of by and by, where so many of the fairy legends of childhood were to come true; and now, slowly, imperceptibly, yet not less surely, the years had flown. Those years which divide early manhood and womanhood from middle age had departed never to return.

The future—the ‘by and by’—which had loomed so far and mist-coloured in their early life, had been overtaken. It had become the present, to be felt and reckoned with. The children had grown up. Of the boys, one was at Cambridge, the other working hard to pass exams., and panting for the happy day when he should see his name gazetted for a commission in an Imperial cavalry regiment. Of the girls, younger by several years, Hermione, almost ready to ‘come out,’ as the Society phrase is; the others, school-girls, receiving daily tuition from governesses, music masters, teachers of drawing, singing, languages,—all the varied education which goes to equip the modern maiden for her place in the ranks of womanhood.

Now these young people had a natural ambition to ‘see the world.’ They had read widely, if not deeply, and were impatient to have tangible evidence of the historic glories of older lands. Of paintings and statuary their knowledge had been necessarily limited, although far from ordinary collections had been accessible in the galleries and museums of the metropolis in which they resided, and others which they had visited. Their artistic tastes, though not wholly unformed, were capable of higher development. They yearned for closer acquaintance with the capitals of the world—the ancient world. They ardently desired to behold Rome, Venice, Greece, Paris, Cairo. Reading was delightful. They could never be sufficiently grateful to their parents who had indulged their legitimate enthusiasm to the fullest amount possible to their opportunities. But, of course, it was not, could never be the same. They longed to stand upon the Bridge of Sighs, ‘a palace and a prison on each hand’; to watch ‘Old Tiber through a marble wilderness rise with her yellow waves’; to visit the Coliseum by moonlight; to stand on Mars Hill, and ‘yon tower-capped Acropolis, which seems the very clouds to kiss,’—in short, to view all sorts of instructive, entrancing places. After such experiences they did not care what happened. They would have seen everything worth seeing. They could no longer be classed as ‘mere colonials’—they would be citizens of the world—akin to the most enviable sections of English society. Mrs. Banneret, though with less enthusiasm, agreed in the main with her daughters. Time and circumstance were propitious. Who could tell whether so favourable a combination would remain unaltered?

Besides, she was anxious to see her sons once more. It was nearly three years since they had left their native land. Her husband secretly sympathised, though for a different class of reasons. He had not, could not have, the instinctive, passionate yearning with which the tender maternal heart agonises, so to speak, for the embrace of the sons whom she has brought into the world; for the sight of their dear faces; to feel once more the touch of cheek, of lips, of handclasp; to hear the joyous exultation of greeting after long absence; to mark anew the likeness to either parent, which the advancing years may have imprinted yet more distinctly on face or form.

In a measure, of course, Arnold Banneret shared these sacred sensations. He was proud of his boys, of their good looks and athletic development; fond of them also, although with less intensity than the mother that bore them—holiest and most ancient tie. He had watched over their education up to the University stage, and now, having, as he told himself, done his duty by them, awaited with some anxiety, though with reasonable confidence, the choice of a profession which it behoved them to make. For himself, he looked forward, of course, with pleasurable anticipation to revisiting the scenes, so fondly remembered, of the halcyon time of early manhood, when, fresh from college, he had roamed over the Continent with a comrade of congenial culture. Together they had followed the course of the majestic, solemn Rhine—mused over the ruined towers of Sternfels and Liebenstein—gazed at Rolandseck, at once the pride and beauty of the noble river. Rome, Athens, Florence, Paris—how the rapture of travel, the joy of companionship, the careless wanderings over hill and dale, city and plain, came freshly back! Could but one’s youth return!

Alas! how few of the comrades of that joyous time are left, even in middle age. Hope is fled; the anticipation of a perhaps romantic future no longer cheers the sober monotony of life. We know the best that _can_ happen. We fear lest the worst should come suddenly into our life, like some monster of the wood, unseen, unsuspected before. Such are, such may be, the brooding imaginings of the later life.

The Honourable Arnold Banneret, as for years he had been styled, was able to combat them by reflecting that, at any rate, he had played a man’s part in life, at first with moderate, then with exceptional success. He had sons wherewith to meet his enemies in the gate. There was little doubt—he thanked God—of their courage and intelligence. Why then this dark hour, these depressing doubts?

As a corrective, he proceeded at once to the office of the P. & O. Company, and took his passage for London. After securing the requisite number of comfortable cabins in the _Lhassa_—the latest addition to the fleet of noble liners which, since their introduction by the great Association of ship-owners, has enabled Australian colonists to travel with speed and economy, with comfort, even luxury—he returned to lunch at Redgrove, with spirits considerably improved, and in a frame of mind more nearly akin to that in which he was accustomed to prepare for a long overland journey in the days of ‘long ago.’ ‘How strange it is,’ he told himself, ‘that on the eve of an important voyage, or undertaking, a feeling of doubt and depression should so often manifest itself. One involuntarily recalls the presentiments which came true—of shipwreck, of hurricane, fire, or mutiny, following the gloom and almost despairing prevision of disaster. Of the numberless successful undertakings and fortunate voyages no record is kept. “Fears of the brave and follies of the wise” are not far to seek in the connection.’

Sir Walter Scott, in success most modest, in adversity truly undaunted, even he owns to an unreasonable cloud of doubt and irresolution, including a ghostly murmur, ‘Do not go, Walter,’ which he solemnly affirms to, and that nearly led him to give up an expedition which afterwards turned out to be most beneficial, fortunate, and even marked by distinguished adventures.

* * * * *

The eventful day, fortunately fine, came at last. It was in the opening week of March—the first month of the southern autumn, mild with clear skies, cool bracing nights and mornings. The winds in that halcyon time were still: the north wind no longer swept across the plains of the inmost desert, bringing burning heat, dust-storms, and wrathful cyclones in its track to the cities of the coast.

All nature, before the advent of winter, appeared to be entering upon a dreamless slumber. The winter, dread season of the austere North, was but relatively severe—cool, rather than cold, with the exception of the mountain heights, where snow fell in early autumn and lay until spring was fairly advanced.

Packing and preparing for the momentous family event was therefore divested of its less agreeable features, while the inevitable process of leave-taking, with farewells to friends and relatives, was transacted under the most favourable circumstances—a bright sun and fair wind, not too pronounced. At the appointed hour the bell rang, the shoreward division was politely requested to hasten their departure, and the huge liner moved gracefully from the wharf, and with calm, resistless force was soon breasting the wavelets between those frowning rock-portals, the Sydney Heads.

On that auspicious, long-remembered day, everything went well. The young people, for the first time in their lives on ‘blue water,’ walked the decks until the time for preparing for dinner arrived.

At this important function they were placed in the seat of honour at the captain’s table, and near that august, autocratic ruler—Mrs. Banneret, indeed, on the commander’s right hand, and other members of the family in close proximity. The whole service was admirable in their eyes; the menu varied, and excellently cooked. Military and naval officers, with Indian passengers getting off at Colombo, gave a pleasant, half-foreign tone to the company. By the time coffee was introduced, and the adjournment to the row of deck-chairs and lounges made, Hermione and Vanda were convinced that a ‘voyage home’ was a fairy-tale experience, merely the overture to a dramatic performance of dazzling variety and enjoyment.

‘What a new life this is, compared to our existence in Sydney!’ exclaimed Hermione to her mother, as together they paced the deck, leaving their father to sit between Vanda and the younger girls, answering their endless questions.

‘Oh, I am so delighted that you persuaded father to make the plunge, and take us home! I was afraid that he might suddenly get bad news from Pilot Mount, or a bank, or something, and say it was impossible to go; you never can be sure, until you are actually on board, and off—really off. Even then the Bardsleys actually came back from Colombo, for some trumpery reason—the climate did not agree with their aunt, or some one. I believe the elder girls went on by themselves. I couldn’t have done that, could I, mother? but you must own it was heartbreaking.’

‘It is like many things that have to be endured in this life, my darling!’ said the fond mother, tenderly parting the bright hair of the girl, now in the first flush of youthful beauty; for they were a handsome family, the Bannerets—vigorous in mind and body; devotedly attached to each other and to their parents; clever in their way, though perhaps not of the highest order of intellectual development, but highly intelligent, and sympathetic to all the higher ideals. What was wanting in early and thorough training was compensated by energy, courage, and the fervent desire to approve themselves fitted for the front ranks in all departments of human effort.

* * * * *

The voyage came to an end, much like other voyages to the home-land, the Mecca of Australian-born colonists, the ancestral isle—the sacred soil, hallowed by a thousand traditions with which all are chiefly familiar from early childhood, but on which not all are privileged to tread. To those who, from narrow circumstances, increasing age, or other reasons, the priceless privilege has been denied (and there have been cases of highly cultured, indeed eminent personages, who, with a curiously accurate knowledge of London town and suburb, have yet never _seen_ either), the omission has caused a regret which only ended with life; while those who can talk of British country houses, and the green lanes of ‘merrie England,’ bear themselves ever afterward with a sense of superiority over their less fortunate friends and relatives. Unvexed by storms, the good ship _Lhassa_ pursued her course to Colombo the paradisial, where first the glories of a possible Eden—with flower and fruit, primæval forest and mystic mountain summit, the whole set like a many-coloured jewel within the girdling wave and glowing tropic sky—were revealed to their enraptured gaze. They left this charmed region after a survey all too brief, registering a vow, separately and collectively, to revisit the magic isle, the splendour of which they would recall in their dreams. However, the next best thing would be the sights and sounds of the city of the Caliph Haroun-al-Raschid, the dream-palaces of Zobeide and Amina—the one-eyed Calendars, transformed princes, and Grand Viziers. Here they were promised a fortnight’s stay, in which they could revel in the ‘havoc and glory of the East’ to their hearts’ content.

This, too, came in due course. Not alone were the immortal memories of the _Arabian Nights_ recalled before their wondering eyes, with water-carriers, black slaves, veiled women, pacha and dragoman, camels and Arab horses, with gems of Easternrie like the sands of the sea for multitude; but more modern delights, perhaps, on the whole, not less alluring to the immature feminine mind—the grandeur and magnificence of the Savoy Hotel, with the dresses and jewels of the fair visitors who made Cairo a winter resort. Whatever sins of omission the Banneret family had to charge themselves with in after years, the complete and thorough exploration of Grand Cairo and its environs was not among them. They ‘did’ the historic place conscientiously and thoroughly. The Sphinx, the Pyramids, the Museum at Boulak; the Nile, up to the first cataract; the citadel, the Mosque, the Palace of Sweet Waters,—all the regular, and some of the irregular sights. Nothing was neglected. The girls, indeed the whole party, rode well. Mrs. Banneret had been a daring horsewoman in her youth, and though motherhood had necessarily abated her enterprise, the courage which neither poverty, sickness, fatigue, nor mortal pain had power to tame, was still unshaken, and enabled her to bear her part in the expeditions in which the family revelled. Her willowy figure, but little altered from the days of girlhood, was admirably suited for equestrian exercise. She, like the rest of the family, delighted in the glowing atmosphere of the desert, and, now that circumstances had conspired to free her from the trammels of housekeeping, she surrendered herself unreservedly to the enchantment of the hour.

‘What a glorious experience this is for the children—for all of us, indeed!’ she exclaimed more than once. ‘I think you and I, Arnold, enjoy the whole thing nearly as much as they do—the foreign surroundings, the verification of old history and legend, the aloofness of all things from the rawness, if I may use the word, of their native land.’

‘Yes,’ he replied; ‘one seems to absorb everything in a deep, unuttered spirit of thankfulness; and while contented with our lot in life, we have one feeling in common with some of our fellow-visitors at the hotel: a conviction—I speak of Lord Westerham and that South African millionaire who came to the Savoy last week—that our financial position is assured, impossible for anything to alter. We are, however, in a higher position than the millionaire. With him brain work and anxiety have told a tale. His health is impaired. They say he suffers terribly from insomnia, than which I can imagine nothing more agonising. A man whom I knew, otherwise enviably placed, finding that change of air combined with a sea voyage had no effect, hired a cab one day, went out for a short drive, and shot himself.’

‘What a dreadful thing to do! He must have been insane.’

‘Not necessarily. The mental torment, unrelieved by “sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care,” had reached the stage when it became unendurable. People are not necessarily mad when they elect to face the problem of the Great Hereafter.’

‘I cannot but think that they _are_,’ said she, ‘or they would remain to confront the ills of life, rather than be false to every duty and callous to the suffering of those whom they leave behind. But the idea is hateful to me. I cannot bear to discuss it.’

The days of dreamy delight in the land of the Pharaohs came all too swiftly to an end. The season had advanced. If they wished to see the glorious greenery of England in the spring, they could not afford to linger among the ruins of the past, however stupendous or awe-striking. It was determined to make one halt, and one only. As there were three women of the party, what doubt could there be of the decision? They were to visit Paris! A short sojourn in Malta produced a cry of delight from the girls as they walked from Nix Mangiare stairs to the Strada Reale. A drive to St. Paul’s Bay, a fleeting vision of the drawbridges and fortifications, of narrow streets and lofty houses; mule-carts, mantillas, and water-carriers; priests with sombre robes and broad-leafed hats. There was so much to see, and but little time in which to do it. The Governor’s Palace was visited, reminiscent of Grand Masters; L’Isle Adam, and doubtless de Beaumanoir, so hard and unrelenting, in the case of the noble and unhappy Rebecca; the ramparts where, guarded by iron railings, were fosses of awful depth, besides old-world towers and batteries, which the Moors in past centuries had good cause to dread. Another day was granted in favour of a visit to the Church of St. John.

‘Oh, we should be disgraced,’ said Hermione—‘have to hide our heads in shame—if we dared to say that we had spent a day in Malta and had not been inside that most lovely church! Think of the Knights of Malta! Why, we are standing on their marble tombstones! De Rohan—think of the motto: “Ni prince, ni roi, Rohan je suis.” Isn’t that it? Perhaps Bois-Guilbert lies not far off—no, he can’t be; he was a Templar, Far from respectable, I daresay; but one can’t help loving him—can you now? Rebecca preferred Wilfred, probably because he was fair and she was dark. I’ve noticed that contrasts in complexion tend that way.’

‘If such nonsense is the outcome of your visit to Malta, we need not have lost a day,’ said Mrs. Banneret. ‘Pray bring your thoughts more into harmony with the surroundings. Listen to that wonderful music—the organ is heavenly, and that soaring soprano might be the voice of an angel. I wonder at you, my dear!’

‘Oh, mother dear, forgive me!’ pleaded the penitent; ‘I did not intend to be irreverent; but whether it is the lovely air, or the intoxication of travel, I can’t say, for one’s tongue seems to run along of itself. I won’t offend again.’ And here tears dimmed the bright eyes of the sensitive maiden, as mother and child embraced over one of the few differences which ever ruffled the calm of their deep mutual love.

Mr. Banneret making his appearance with the two younger girls, explanations were deferred, and the party made their way homeward.

Only a short stay, limited to the time necessary for the purchase of _articles de Paris_ and the indispensable shoes and gloves, was made in Paris, the all-important dress question being left to a more convenient season, when it and the leisurely Continental tour could be thoroughly enjoyed. At present the parents, although indulgent to the border-line of prudence, were actuated by motives unconnected with the enjoyment of picture galleries, gardens of Armida, or military reviews, where the striking uniforms of Zouaves and Spahis delighted the girls. Mrs. Banneret yearned with all the intensity of the maternal heart to see her boys again.

The head of the family had not said much on the subject, and, save the sharer of his joys and sorrows, none had heard him open his heart upon a matter which nevertheless lay very near it—had indeed caused him more anxiety than he cared to express. ‘How are these boys of mine likely to turn out?’ was a query which arose in his mind at early dawn, when he always awoke; sometimes, although not often, in the watches of the night; occasionally during the day with insistent pertinacity. He had seen so many cases where early moral training, a good example, a liberal education, good society, and good advice had been all too powerless to stem the downward current of indolence, extravagance, and dissipation. The fatal knowledge that for them, at least, there was no necessity for industry, self-denial, or economy, overbore all old-fashioned arguments, as they considered them to be.

‘The governor,’ thus referred to in latter-day speech, ‘had made “pots of money”—it had been all right for _him_ to work and slave in the queer early times that old buffers yarned about. He was bound to do it, of course, or go under. But they were _not_—that made all the difference. They were sorry to disagree with him—he wasn’t half bad, the old governor—in fact, a dashed good sort. But he wasn’t up to date! He had no idea of how a chap had to chuck the coin about, to keep in the front rank, nowadays. He _must_ have the necessaries of life. Think of what polo costs! You couldn’t get a decent pony under fifty or sixty quid; then you must have a boy—a smart one too; two ponies were little enough—safer to have four, in case of accidents. Fellah must be decently dressed if he goes out at all—and tailors, if they were any good, charged such infernal prices! He’d a fairish allowance, but last Cup Day made a hole in it’—and so on—and so on.

This was the way the sons of his old friends talked; this was the way they acted—sad to relate. He heard them at the clubs—where they came down late for breakfast, looking as if they required a ‘strongish nip’ to steady their nerves. They confessed with cheerful confidence that ‘supper after the theatre had not been conducive to appetite. They really intended to take a pull some day—perhaps get married. But, really, Sydney and Melbourne had become such infernally dull holes that there was nothing to keep a fellow from goin’ to sleep except bridge and billiards—which didn’t always pay.’

Would it not be worth while to try politics for a little excitement? was suggested. There was the landed interest to develop legitimately—or indeed to defend. A wave of socialism had arisen, was indeed likely to become a tidal wave if no effort was made to arrest the doctrine of which among the earliest expositors was the late lamented John Cade.

‘What!’ cries ‘the heir of all the ages’—‘mug up Goldwin Smith, Herbert Spencer, and those other Johnnies—to rub shoulders with a lot of fellows that drop their _h_’s all over the shop? Shouldn’t get in, for one thing—and, if I did, why there’s hardly a gentleman in the whole caboodle!’

‘Whose fault is that?’ queried the senior. ‘Have you ever tried?—or have any young men of your class, except Wharton and Conyers, and what are they among so many?’

‘Don’t know that I have—not built that way. Some fellahs like that sort of thing—I don’t.’

‘Of course it doesn’t matter. It might interfere with your amusements. Then you don’t mind that the laws are being made by the people you despise and won’t associate with—laws to bind your children—and their children after you—if you ever have any: you’ve lost the chance of modifying them—or blocking the suicidal and destructive ones. Laws made by men without capital in land or business—chiefly without culture, often without character; laws made to bind that part of the population who are handicapped by the possession of qualifications anciently held to be titles to respect—now held to place them below the swagman, the loafer, the drunkard, and the pauper, as guarantee for place and power! How does that strike you?’

‘Well, it does look mean—rather a crowd of “rotters” to belong to—I must think it over—I’m popular round about old Banda-widgeree—I think I’ll have a shy for the district next election if it’s not too late. I’m almost afraid it is. They’re talking of nationalising the goldfields—the land—the railways. Hang it!—they’ll want to nationalise a fellah’s bank-balance next.’

‘They’ll do that by a side wind, and if they have the voting power on their side—as they have pretty well now, what with adult and female suffrage: ten thousand female voters in a metropolitan constituency against _nine_ thousand male voters—whose fault is that?’

‘I’m afraid our crowd had most to do with it by letting things drift—and I’m as bad as anybody. Good-bye—thanks—I do see things a trifle more clearly. Perhaps I’ll stand after all.’

Arnold Banneret had listened to, indeed joined in, a conversation much resembling it one day. It deepened the lines on his brow, which were beginning to be more pronounced than the advance of time warranted.