aracter, and a week or
a month later they would meet on the same boulevard without surprise or
embarrassment. And in the meantime Dick learned more about his
acquaintance on all sides: heard of his yacht, his chaise and four, his
brief season of celebrity amid a more confiding population, his
daughter, of whom he loved to whimper in his cups, his sponging,
parasitical, nameless way of life; and with each new detail something
that was not merely interest nor yet altogether affection grew up in his
mind towards this disreputable stepson of the arts. Ere he left Paris
Van Tromp was one of those whom he entertained to a farewell supper; and
the old gentleman made the speech of the evening, and then fell below
the table, weeping, smiling, paralysed.

CHAPTER II

A LETTER TO THE PAPERS

Old Mr. Naseby had the sturdy, untutored nature of the upper middle
class. The universe seemed plain to him. "The thing's right," he would
say, or "the thing's wrong"; and there was an end of it. There was a
contained, prophetic energy in his utterances, even on the slightest
affairs; he _saw_ the damned thing; if you did not, it must be from
perversity of will, and this sent the blood to his head. Apart from
this, which made him an exacting companion, he was one of the most
upright, hot-tempered old gentlemen in England. Florid, with white hair,
the face of an old Jupiter, and the figure of an old fox-hunter, he
enlivened the vale of Thyme from end to end on his big, cantering
chestnut.

He had a hearty respect for Dick as a lad of parts. Dick had a respect
for his father as the best of men, tempered by the politic revolt of a
youth who has to see to his own independence. Whenever the pair argued,
they came to an open rupture; and arguments were frequent, for they were
both positive, and both loved the work of the intelligence. It was a
treat to hear Mr. Naseby defending the Church of England in a volley of
oaths, or supporting ascetic morals with an enthusiasm not entirely
innocent of port wine. Dick used to wax indignant, and none the less so
because, as his father was a skilful disputant, he found himself not
seldom in the wrong. On these occasions, he would redouble in energy,
and declare that black was white, and blue yellow, with much conviction
and heat of manner; but in the morning such a licence of debate weighed
upon him like a crime, and he would seek out his father, where he walked
before breakfast on a terrace overlo