'You can smoke your cigarette here, dear; no one would smell that,' said
the fond mother.

'Thank you, mother; but I thought of smoking with my father and uncle,'
he replied.

'What! beard the lion in his den? What on earth for, George? You know
you never do go and smoke with him,' observed Sarah.

'Don't go to-night, my dear. Your uncle 'as somethin' particular to say
to 'im, an' nothin' very pleasant, I could see that; an' you'd best not
be there in case 'e's upset. Not but w'at Bill manages 'im better than
any one else; still, they'll get on better alone.'

George Clay hesitated a minute, and then, turning back, took up his old
position in his arm-chair, observing, 'Perhaps you're right, and I can go
down and see him to-morrow.'

'See whom--Uncle Howroyd?' demanded Sarah.

But George made no reply, and remained sunk among the cushions, his head
tilted back and his eyes staring at the painted cupids on the ceiling,
which did not give him much pleasure, judging by the half-frown upon his
face.

'It's my belief that there's something the matter,' said Sarah after a
silence.

'Nonsense, child! W'at should be the matter? There's always worries in
business, an' women 'ave no right to interfere in such things nor make
any remarks,' said Mrs Clay.

'Well, all I can say is, I wish something would happen. We're just
stalled oxen here,' observed Sarah.

'Stalled oxen? W'atever can you mean?' asked Mrs Clay in bewilderment,
for she did not recognise the allusion to the verse in Proverbs: 'Better
is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred
therewith.'

George gave a little chuckle. 'She certainly does not mean what she
says.--You'd better read your Bible again, and you'll see that stalled
oxen is what we eat, not what we are.'

'Stalled oxen?' said Mrs Clay, repeating, as was her custom, any remark
which she did not understand or agree with. 'Is Sarah callin' us stalled
oxen?'

'No, I'm not, mother; I'm the only one that feels like that. George hugs
his golden chains, and so do you,' replied Sarah. 'And he doesn't care
how doubtful the means are that give them to him.'

George made no reply at all, and after some time the three got up and
went to bed.

And so ended an evening typical of many passed in the millionaire's
house, which was only less dreary than usual owing to William Howroyd's
visit.

CHAPTER IV.

AN UNANSWERED QUESTION.

'It's a beautiful morning, Miss Sarah,' s