cel with the loosened string.

"You know they are the same," said Sir Peter savagely. "Let this farce
end at once. You should be ashamed, Rowlandson, to seek your shabby
profit in the helplessness of a misguided child, ignorant of the
world--and its hard, rough usage. I am surprised that you would do
it--but that you should tell of it--even boast of it, amazes me.
However--trade blunts a certain delicacy of feeling that--"

Sir Peter gave the bookseller a sharp look. Then he added,--

"I see your purpose in coming here now. You calculated shrewdly.
Well--you were right. I will pay you the sum advanced to her."

Whatever emotion Mr. Rowlandson experienced he concealed.

Sir Peter opened his check-book again, and dipped his pen.

"How much did you say?" he asked.

"The amount advanced was fifty pounds," said Mr. Rowlandson mildly.

"Fifty pounds!" exclaimed Sir Peter.

Mr. Rowlandson held his wine-glass to the light again, and looked
through it with half-closed eyes.

"Fifty pounds," he quietly repeated, "and took her note, with interest
at five per cent. I could have made it six as well as not, she wanted
the money so badly."

Sir Peter turned his back on the bookseller the pen busied itself with
the check. A moment later it was offered to him.

"Thank you, Sir Peter. My interest in this transaction is not for sale."
Mr. Rowlandson spoke in a low tone, firmly.

"But I say my niece shall not be indebted to you! Not one penny!"

Sir Peter's fist came down on one of the parcels lying on the table.
There was a crash of broken glass. Mr. Rowlandson's eyes twinkled
merrily.

"That is the Charterhouse print," said he. "My customer will be
disappointed. It was promised for this evening."

The trivial incident cooled Sir Peter's wrath.

"I insist on your taking the check, Rowlandson" he said sternly. "You
will understand it is an impossible situation. My niece is not under the
necessity of seeking aid from strangers. She knows that all I have is
hers. That I would----" He stopped abruptly.

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Rowlandson, leaning forward. "Let us talk about
her--and her young poet. What an upstanding, fine, frank lad he appears
to be. Do you think he has great talent?"

"I do not know that he has any talent whatever!" replied Sir Peter
angrily. "I know he stole my niece from me? the puppy!"

"Well, well," said Mr. Rowlandson gently. "That was wrong. Wrong,
indeed. And I suppose you had showed him clearly