“I’ve come down, Jo. I’ve had a letter I don’t like.”

Through young Jolyon raced the thought: ‘Davids!’ and his heart sank into his velvet slippers. He said, however, drawling:

“Charmed to see you, Sir. You haven’t had dinner? Can you eat wild duck? This claret’s pretty good.”

Taking his father’s hat and coat, he placed him with his back to the fire, plied the bellows, and bawled down the stairway for forks and another wild duck. And while he bawled he felt as if he could be sick, for he had a great love for his father, and this was why he was afraid of him. And old Jolyon, who had a great love for his son, was not sorry to stand and warm his legs and wait.

They ate the wild duck, drank the claret, talking of the weather, and small matters. They finished, and Young Jolyon said:

“Take that ‘froust,’ Dad;” and his heart tried to creep from him into the floor.

Old Jolyon clipped a cigar, handed another to his son, and sat down in the old leather chair on one side of the fire; young Jolyon sat in another old leather chair on the other side, and they smoked in silence, till old Jolyon took the letter from his pocket and handed it across.

“What’s the meaning of it, Jo? Why didn’t you come to me?”

Young Jolyon read the letter with feelings of relief, dismay, and anger with his Bank. Why on earth had they written? He felt his whiskers, and said:

“Oh! That!”

Old Jolyon sat looking at him with a sharp deep gravity.

“I suppose it means that you’re in debt?” he said, at last.

Young Jolyon shrugged: “Oh! well, naturally. I mean, one must—”

“Must what?”

“Live like other fellows, Dad.”

“Other fellows? Haven’t you at least the average allowance?”

Young Jolyon had. “But that’s just it,” he said eagerly. “I’m not in an average set.”

“Then why did you get into such a set, Jo?”

“I don’t know, Sir. School and one thing and another. It’s an awfully good set.”

“H’m!” said old Jolyon, deeply. “Would this hundred pounds have cleared you?”

“Cleared me! Oh! well—yes, of what matters.”

“What matters?” repeated old Jolyon. “Doesn’t every debt matter?”

“Of course, Dad; but everybody up here owes money to tradesmen. I mean, they expect it.”

Old Jolyon’s eyes narrowed and sharpened.

“Tradesmen? What matters are not tradesmen? What then? A woman?” The word came out hushed and sharp.

Young Jolyon shook his head. “Oh! No.”

Old Jolyon’s attitude relaxed a little, as if with some intimate relief. He flipped the ash off his cigar.

“Have you been gambling, then, Jo?”

Struggling to keep his face calm and his eyes on his father’s, young Jolyon answered:

“A little.”

“Gambling!” Something of distress and consternation in the sound young Jolyon couldn’t bear, and hastened on:

“Well, Dad, I don’t mean to go on with it. But Newmarket, you know, and—and—one doesn’t like to be a prig.”

“Prig? For not gambling? I don’t understand. A gambler!”

And, again, at that note in his voice, young Jolyon cried:

“I really don’t care for it, Dad; I mean I’m just as happy without.”

“Then why do you do it? It’s weak. I don’t like weakness, Jo.”

Young Jolyon’s face hardened. The Dad would never understand. To be a swell—superior to Fate! Hopeless to explain! He said lamely:

“All the best chaps—”

Old Jolyon averted his eyes. For at least two minutes he sat staring at the fire.

“I’ve never gambled, or owed money,” he said at last, with no pride in the tone of his voice, but with deep conviction. “I must know your position, Jo. What is it? Speak the truth. How much do you owe, and to whom?”

Young Jolyon had once been discovered cribbing. This was worse. It was as little possible as it had been then to explain that everybody did it. He said sullenly:

“I suppose—somewhere about three hundred, to tradesmen.”

Old Jolyon’s glance went through and through him.

“And that doesn’t matter? What else?”

“I did owe about a hundred to fellows, but I’ve paid them.”

“That’s what you wanted the overdraft for, then?”

“Debts of honour—yes.”

“Debts of honour,” repeated old Jolyon. “And where did you get the hundred from?”

“I borrowed it.”

“When?”

“To-day.”

“Who from?”

“A man called Davids.”

“Money-lender?”

Young Jolyon bowed his head.

“And you preferred to go to a money-lender than to come to me?”

Young Jolyon’s lips quivered; he pitched his cigar into the fire, not strong enough to bear it.

“I—I—knew you’d—you’d hate it so, Dad.”

“I hate this more, Jo.”

To both of them it seemed the worst moment they had ever been through, and it lasted a long time. Then old Jolyon said:

“What did you sign?”

“I borrowed a hundred and fifty, and promised to pay two hundred in six months.”

“And how were you going to get that?”

“I don’t know.”

Old Jolyon, too, pitched his cigar into the fire, and passed his hand over his forehead.

Impulsively young Jolyon rose, and, oblivious of his whiskers, sat down on the arm of his father’s chair, precisely as if he were not a swell. There were tears in his eyes.

“I’m truly sorry, Dad; only, you don’t understand.” Old Jolyon shook his head.

“No, I don’t understand, Jo. That’s the way to ruin.”

“They were debts of honour, Dad.”

“All debts are debts of honour. But that’s not the point. It seems to me you can’t face things. I know you’re an affectionate chap, but that won’t help you.”

Young Jolyon got up.

“I CAN face things,” he said: “I—! Oh! You can’t realise.”

Scattering the logs with his slippered foot, he stared into the glow. His eyes felt burned, his inside all churned up; and while the ‘swell’ within him drawled: ‘A fuss about money’; all his love for his father was raw and quivering. He heard old Jolyon say:

“I’ll go now, Jo. Have a list of your debts for me tomorrow. I shall pay them myself. We’ll go to that money-lender chap together.”

Young Jolyon heard him getting up, heard him with his coat and hat, heard him open the door; and, twisting round, cried:

“Oh! Dad!”

“Good-night, Jo!” He was gone.

Young Jolyon stood a long time by the dying fire. His father did not, could not know what a fellow had to do, how behave to—to be superior to fortune. He was old-fashioned! But, besides loving him, young Jolyon admired his father, admired him physically and mentally—as much—yes, more than the Honble. Crasher or Digby Grand. And he was miserable.

He sat up late, making a list of his debts as well as anyone could who had the habit of tearing up his bills. Repressed emotion tossed his slumbers, and when he woke the thought of the joint visit to Mr. Davids made him feel unwell.

Old Jolyon came at ten o’clock, looking almost haggard. He took the list from his son.

“Are these all, Jo?”

“So far as I can remember.”

“Send any others in to me. Which of your friends are the gamblers?”

Young Jolyon coloured.

“You must excuse me, Dad.”

Old Jolyon looked at him.

“Very well!” he said. “We’ll go to this money-lender now.”

They walked forth. By God’s mercy no one had bounced in on his way to Newmarket. Young Jolyon caught sight of ‘Donny’ Covercourt on the far side of the quadrangle and returned him no greeting. Quite silent, side by side, father and son passed out into the street. Except for old Jolyon’s remark:

“There’s no end to these Colleges, it seems,” they did not speak until they reached the office of Mr. Davids, above a billiard room.

Old Jolyon ascended, stumping the stairs with his umbrella; young Jolyon followed with his head down. He was bitterly ashamed; it is probable that old Jolyon was even more so.

The money-lender was in his inner office, just visible through the half-open doorway. Old Jolyon pushed the door with his umbrella.