e time he had been
a baronet, and Andrew swithered between the dissoluteness of the request
and a certain stylishness it undoubtedly possessed.

"Mr. Walkingshaw is very determined for it," said the nurse.

"Very well," he answered. "I'll get it for you."

He went out with her and then returned to his sisters.

"Does it mean the end is near?" asked Mrs. Donaldson in a very hushed
voice.

"It means it's nearer," he answered grimly.

Undoubtedly this was a wild end for one of the most respectable lives
ever lived in Edinburgh. Outside, the gale was now positively
shrieking; and inside, he presumed the cork was already popping.

"What a pity!" said Gertrude.

"Oh, I don't know about that," replied her sister. "It keeps them happy.
George's uncle tried to sing after they thought all was over."

Her brother frowned. The possibility that the head of Walkingshaw &
Gilliflower might exit singing exceeded his gloomiest forebodings. He
wished women did not have that habit of talking about unpleasant things.
Could they not keep the like of that to themselves?

Even as he frowned the second tap disturbed them.

"What is it now?" he snapped.

"Could you tell me," asked the nurse, "where Mr. Walkingshaw keeps his
cigars?"

"Cigars!" he cried.

"He is very set upon one."

Andrew silently opened a cupboard and handed her a box of cigars. Then,
still in silence, he seated himself before the fire and frowned at the
dancing flames. Behind his back his sisters talked in low voices, but he
seemed to have no taste for further conversation.

A few minutes later came the third tap, and this time there was so
curious a look in the nurse's face that the junior partner was on his
feet in an instant.

"Is it--shall we come up?" he exclaimed.

"Mr. Walkingshaw would like to know what there's to be for dinner," said
the nurse.

He looked at his sisters and they at him, and then he rang the bell.
Nobody spoke till the butler came up.

"Will you ask the cook what's for dinner? Mr. Walkingshaw wants to
know."

Andrew threw into this speech all the concentrated bitterness of his
soul. Here was the quintessence of unorthodoxy in the very home of
Walkingshaw & Gilliflower! The head of the firm proposed to die not
merely drinking and smoking, but, if possible, feasting. They might be
in some wretched Bohemian den.

In a few minutes the butler returned with a menu. Andrew read it with a
sardonic smile.

"Tell him," he said, "