“D’you mean to tell me,” he said, when Cicely shut the piano, “that you don’t like those Dresden vases?”

Nobody knew whom he was addressing or why, so no one replied.

“I bought ’em at Jobson’s in ‘67, and they’re worth three times what I gave for them.”

It was Rachel who responded.

“Well, Pater, do you like them yourself?”

“Like them? What’s that got to do with it? They’re genuine, and worth a lot of money.”

“I wish you’d sell them, then, James,” said Emily. “They’re not the fashion now.”

“Fashion! They’ll be worth a lot more before I die.”

“A bargain,” muttered Cicely, below her breath.

“What’s that?” said James, whose hearing was sometimes unexpectedly sharp.

“I said: ‘A bargain,’ Pater; weren’t they?”

“Of course they were”; and it could be heard from his tone that if they hadn’t been, he wouldn’t have bought them. “You young people know nothing about money, except how to spend it”; and he looked at his son-inlaw, who was sedulously concerned with his finger-nails.

Emily, partly to smooth James, whom she could see was ruffled, and partly because she had a passion for the game, told Cicely to get out the card table, and said with cheery composure:

“Come along, James, we’ll play Nap.”

They sat around the green board for a considerable time playing for farthings, with every now and then a little burst of laughter, when James said: “I’ll go Nap!” At this particular game, indeed, James was always visited by a sort of recklessness. At farthing points he could be a devil of a fellow for very little money. He had soon lost thirteen shillings, and was as dashing as ever.

He rose at last, in excellent humour, pretending to be bankrupt.

“Well, I don’t know,” he said, “I always lose MY money.”

The Hondekoeter, and the misgivings it had given rise to, had faded from his mind.

Winifred and Dartie departing, without the latter having touched on finance, he went up to bed with Emily in an almost cheerful condition; and, having turned his back on her, was soon snoring lightly.

He was awakened by a crash and bumping rumble, as it might be thunder, on the right.

“What on earth’s that, James?” said Emily’s startled voice.

“What?” said James: “Where? Here, where are my slippers?”

“It must be a thunderbolt. Be careful, James.”

For James, in his nightgown, was already standing by the bedside—in the radiance of a night-light, long as a stork. He sniffed loudly.

“D’you smell burning?”

“No,” said Emily.

“Here, give me the candle.”

“Put on this shawl, James. It can’t be burglars; they wouldn’t make such a noise.”

“I don’t know,” muttered James, “I was asleep.” He took the candle from Emily, and shuffled to the door.

“What’s all this?” he said on the landing. By confused candle and night-light he could see a number of white-clothed figures—Rachel, Cicely, and the maid Fifine, in their nightgowns. Soames in his nightshirt, at the head of the stairs, and down below, that fellow Warmson.

The voice of Soames, flat and calm, said:

“It’s the Hondekoeter.”

There, in fact, enormous, at the bottom of the stairs, was the Hondekoeter, fallen on its face. James, holding up his candle, stalked down and stood gazing at it. No one spoke, except Fifine, who said: “La, la!”

Cicely, seized with a fit of giggles, vanished.

Then Soames spoke into the dark well below him, illumined faintly by James’ candle.

“It’s all right, Pater; it won’t be hurt; there was no glass.”

James did not answer, but holding his candle low, returned up the stairs, and without a word went back into his bedroom.

“What was it, James?” said Emily, who had not risen.

“That picture came down with a run—comes of not looking after things yourself. That fellow Warmson! Where’s the eau-de-Cologne?”

He anointed himself, got back into bed, and lay on his back, waiting for Emily to improve the occasion. But all she said was:

“I hope it hasn’t made your head ache, James.”

“No,” said James; and, for some time after she was asleep, he lay with his eyes on the night-light, as if waiting for the Hondekoeter to play him another trick—after he had bought the thing and given it a good home, too!

Next morning, going down to breakfast he passed the picture, which had been lifted, so that it stood slanting, with its back to the stair wall. The white rooster seemed just as much on the point of taking a bath as ever. The feathers floated on their backs, curved like shallops. He passed on into the dining-room.

They were all there, eating eggs and bacon, suspiciously silent.

James helped himself and sat down.

“What are you going to do with it now, James?” said Emily.

“Do with it? Hang it again, of course!”

“Not really, Pater!” said Rachel. “It gave me fits last night.”

“That wall won’t stand it,” said Soames.

“What! It’s a good wall!”

“It really is too big,” said Emily.

“And we none of us like it, Pater,” put in Cicely, “it’s such a monster, and so yellow!”

“Monster, indeed!” said James, and was silent, till suddenly he spluttered:

“What would you have me do with it, then?”

“Send it back; sell it again.”

“I shouldn’t get anything for it.”

“But you said it was a bargain, Pater,” said Cicely.

“So it was!”

There was another silence. James looked sidelong at his son; there was a certain pathos in that glance, as if it were seeking help, but Soames was concentrated above his plate.

“Have it put up in the lumber-room, James,” said Emily, quietly.

James reddened between his whiskers, and his mouth opened; he looked again at his son, but Soames ate on. James turned to his teacup. And there went on within him that which he could not express. It was as if they had asked him: “When is a bargain not a bargain?” and he didn’t know the answer, but they did. A change of epoch, something new-fangled in the air. A man could no longer buy a thing because it was worth more! It was—it was the end of everything. And, suddenly, he mumbled: “Well, have it your own way, then. Throwing money away, I call it!”

After he had gone to the office, the Hondekoeter was conducted to the lumber-room by Warmson, Hunt, and Thomas. There, covered by a dust-sheet to preserve the varnish, it rested twenty-one years, till the death of James in 1901, when it went forth and again came under the hammer. It fetched five pounds, and was bought by a designer of posters, working for a poultry-breeding firm.

The Ball was over. Soames decided to walk. In the cloak-room, whence he retrieved coat and opera hat, a mirror showed him a white-waistcoated figure still trim, but a half-melted collar, and a brown edging to the gardenia in his button-hole. Hot with a vengeance it had been! And taking a silk handkerchief from his cuff he passed it over his face before putting on his hat.

Down the broad red-carpeted steps where Chinese lanterns had burned out, he passed into the Inner Temple and the dawn. A faint air from the river freshened his face. Half-past three!

Perhaps he had never danced so often as that night—so often and so long. Six times with Irene! Six times with girls of whom he now remembered nothing. Had he danced well—dancing with HER he had been conscious only of her closeness and her scent; and, dancing with those others, only of her circling apart, out of his reach.

Only fourteen days and fourteen nights—until her closeness and her scent should be for ever his! She should be nearly home by now, with that stepmother of hers, in the hansom cab wherein he had placed them. How Irene detested that woman, and no wonder! For Soames knew well enough that to ‘that woman’s’ wish to get her stepdaughter married, so that she might marry again herself, he had owed his own chances these past eighteen months.