r at least three hours a day. And as
to my being the prop of your old age, your vigor of language assures me
that you are strong enough to stand alone."

Paterfamilias, never bearded before, hastily drank a glass of port--the
two were enjoying the usual pleasant family meal when the conversation
took place--and said--but it is useless to detail his remarks. They were
all sound and no sense. In justice to himself, and out of pity for his
father, Paul cut short the scene by leaving the room with his
determination unchanged. Mr. Beecot thereupon retired to bed, and
lectured his wife on the enormity of having brought a parricide into the
world. Having been countered for once in his life with common-sense, he
felt that he could not put the matter too strongly to a woman, who was
too weak to resent his bullying.

Early next day the cause of the commotion, not having swerved a
hair's-breadth from the path he had marked out, took leave of his
mother, and a formal farewell of the gentleman who described himself as
the best of fathers. Beecot senior, turkey-cock and tyrant, was more
subdued now that he found bluster would not carry his point. But the
wave of common-sense came too late. Paul departed bag and baggage, and
his sire swore to the empty air. Even Mrs. Beecot was not available, as
she had fainted.

Once Paul was fairly out of the house paterfamilias announced that the
glory of Israel had departed, removed his son's photograph from the
drawing-room, and considered which of the relatives he had quarrelled
with he should adopt. Privately, he thought he had been a trifle hard on
the lad, and but for his obstinacy--which he called firmness--he would
have recalled the prodigal. But that enterprising adventurer was beyond
hearing, and had left no address behind him. Beecot, the bully, was not
a bad old boy if only he had been firmly dealt with, so he acknowledged
that Paul had a fine spirit of his own, inherited from himself, and
prophesied incorrectly. "He'll come back when the fifty pounds is
exhausted," said he in a kind of dejected rage, "and when he does--" A
clenched fist shaken at nothing terminated the speech and showed that
the leopard could not change his spots.

So Paul Beecot repaired to London, and after the orthodox fashion began
to cultivate the Muses on a little oatmeal by renting a Bloomsbury
garret. There he wrote reams on all subjects and in all styles, and for
six months assiduously haunted publishers'