Mr. Davids rose, apparently surprised, and stood looking round his nose in an ingratiating manner.

“This is my father,” said young Jolyon, gazing deeply at his boots.

“Mr. Davids, I think?” began old Jolyon.

“Yeth, Thir. What may I have the pleasure—”

“You were good enough yesterday to advance my son the sum of a hundred and fifty pounds, for which he signed a promissory note for an extortionate amount. Kindly give me that note, and take this cheque in satisfaction.”

Mr. Davids washed his hands.

“For what amount ith your cheque, Thir?”

Old Jolyon took a cheque from his pocket and unfolded it.

“For your money, and one day’s interest at ten per cent.”

Mr. Davids threw up his well-washed hands.

“Oh! No, Mithter Forthyte; no! Thath not bithneth. Give me a cheque for the amount of the promithory note, and you can have it. I’m not ancthious to be paid—not at all.”

Old Jolyon clapped his hat on his head.

“You will accept my cheque!” he said, and thrust it under the money-lender’s eyes.

Mr. Davids examined it, and said:

“You take me for a fool, it theemth.”

“I take you for a knave,” said old Jolyon. “Sixty-six per cent, forsooth!”

Mr. Davids recoiled in sheer surprise.

“I took a great rithk to lend your thon that money.”

“You took no risk whatever. One day’s interest at ten per cent is ninepence three-farthings; I’ve made it tenpence. Be so good as to give me that note.”

Mr. Davids shook his head.

“Very well,” said old Jolyon. “I’ve made some inquiries about you. I go straight from here to the Vice–Chancellor.”

Mr. Davids again began to wash his hands.

“And thuppothe,” he said, “I go to your thon’s College and tell them that I lend him thith money?”

“Do!” said old Jolyon; “do! Come, Jo!” He turned and walked to the door, followed by his agonised but unmoved son.

“Thtop!” said Mr. Davids. “I don’t want to make no trouble.”

Old Jolyon’s eyes twinkled under his drawn brows.

“Oh!” he said, without turning, “you don’t! Make haste, then. I give you two minutes,” and he took out his watch.

Young Jolyon stood looking dazedly at the familiar golden object. Behind him he could hear Mr. Davids making haste.

“Here it ith, Mithter Forthyte, here it ith!”

Old Jolyon turned.

“Is that your signature, Jo?”

“Yes,” said young Jolyon, dully.

“Take it, then, and tear it up.”

Young Jolyon took, and tore it savagely.

“Here’s your cheque,” said old Jolyon.

Mr. Davids grasped the cheque, changing his feet rapidly.

“Ith not bithneth, really ith not bithneth,” he repeated.

“The deuce it isn’t,” said old Jolyon; “you may thank your stars I don’t go to the Vice–Chancellor, into the bargain. Good-bye to you!” He stumped his umbrella and walked out.

Young Jolyon followed, sheepishly.

“Where’s the station, Jo?”

Young Jolyon led the way, and they walked on, more silent than ever.

At last old Jolyon said:

“This has been a sad affair. It’s your not coming to me, Jo, that hurt.”

Young Jolyon’s answer was strangled in his throat.

“And don’t gamble, my boy. It’s weak-minded. Well, here we are!”

They turned into the station. Old Jolyon bought The Times. They stood together, silent on the platform, till the London train came in; then young Jolyon put his hand through his father’s arm, and squeezed it. Old Jolyon nodded:

“I shan’t allude to this again, Jo. But there’s just one thing: If you must be a swell, remember that you’re a gentleman too. Good-bye, my boy!” He laid his hand on his son’s shoulder, turned quickly and got in.

Young Jolyon stood with bared head, watching the train go out. He then walked, as well as he knew how, back to College.

Indeed, yes! A sad affair!

When the house of Roger Forsyte in Prince’s Gate was burgled in the autumn of 1870, Smith was undoubtedly drunk and made no serious attempt to rebut the accusation. A broad man of extremely genial disposition, he had in the few months of his butlerdom in Roger’s new house endeared himself to the young Rogers, and even Roger was wont to speak of him as ‘an amiable chap.’ To be drunk without anyone’s knowing, is a tort; to be discovered drunk, a misdemeanour; to be drunk when burglary is committed under one’s nose, a crime, if not a felony. This, at least, was Roger’s view, and he acted on it by immediate dismissal. His spoons had gone and Smith must go, too.

“If you hadn’t been drunk,” he said, “you’d have heard the ruffians. Call yourself a butler—you’re a disgrace.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Smith, humbly, “a glass has always been my weakness, but I never thought it’d come to this.”

“Well, it has,” said Roger, “and so have you. Off you go this very day, and don’t come to me for a character.”

In mitigation of Roger’s harshness it will be remembered that in those days there was no such practice as insurance against burglary. Indeed, it was Roger (always original) who started the habit, and he had to go to Lloyd’s to get it done.

“It’s the most barefaced thing I ever knew,” he added. The plate-basket, indeed, with all the spoons, forks, salt-cellars and pepper-pots of Roger’s ménage, had been rived practically from under the nose of the intoxicated Smith snoring on the turn-up bedstead in his own pantry. He had still been asleep, indeed, with a glass and empty whisky bottle by his bedside, when the page-boy entered in the morning.

Smith having withdrawn to his pantry, with his tail between his legs, Roger repaired to his bedroom, where in the four-poster his wife still lay thinking about less than usual, and put the matter in a few forcible words.

“Oh! Roger, what a pity! Such an amiable man. The children will be very upset.”

“Fiddlesticks!” said Roger. “I must go out and see the police. But they’re no good. Precious little chance of getting anything back.”

Mrs. Roger remained lying, flat as ever. She had been married to him seventeen years, and if she now had a life of her own, no one knew where she kept it.

Smith, on the other hand, upright in his shirt-sleeves, had an expression on his broad and amiable face as though he had mislaid his trousers. To him thus standing the pantry door was flung open, and in the doorway stood Miss Francie. Francie Forsyte was then aged twelve, a dark-haired child with thin legs always outgrowing their integuments. Her Celtic-grey eyes shone ominously.

“You’re not to go, Smith. I won’t have it. You couldn’t help being drunk when the burglars came.”

“‘Ush! Miss Francie,” said Smith, “the Master says I’ve got to.”

Francie put a hand into his.

“Dear Smith!”

Smith’s round face grew almost long.

“It’s my fault, Miss; I WAS tipsy, there’s no denyin’.”

“But how could you tell the burglars were coming?”

“I couldn’t, Miss Francie, and that’s a fact.”

“Well, then!”

“If I ‘adn’t been tipsy,” said Smith with sudden violence, “I’D ‘ave given ’em what for!” And he worked his arm up to the angle which best displayed his formidable biceps.

“Oh! Smith,” said Francie, “you ARE strong! Feel; I haven’t got ANY!” And she angled her arm, thin, like a stick. Then the thought coming to her that soon there would be no Smith to show her lack of muscle to, the water started into her eyes.

“You’re NOT to go,” she cried again. “Here’s Eustace, he’ll say so too.”

The youngest but one of the five young Rogers was now eleven, dark-haired and thin-faced like his sister, and, like her, grey-eyed, but of a calm which contrasted forcibly with Francie’s fervour. He was recovering from the mumps, which had conveniently delayed his return to school.

“Have you really got to go, Smiff?” he said. “I wouldn’t, if I were you. I should just stay.”