your father's. He ought to go bankrupt, you know."

To Bob Pillin, glowing with passion and Madeira, the idea of bankruptcy
seemed discreditable in connection with a relative of Phyllis. Besides,
the old boy was far from that! Had he not just made this settlement on
Mrs. Larne? And he said:

"I think you're mistaken. That's of the past."

Mr. Ventnor smiled.

"Will you bet?" he said.

Bob Pillin also smiled. "I should be bettin' on a certainty."

Mr. Ventnor passed his hand over his whiskered face. "Don't you believe
it; he hasn't a mag to his name. Fill your glass."

Bob Pillin said, with a certain resentment:

"Well, I happen to know he's just made a settlement of five or six
thousand pounds. Don't know if you call that being bankrupt."

"What! On this Mrs. Larne?"

Confused, uncertain whether he had said something derogatory or
indiscreet, or something which added distinction to Phyllis, Bob Pillin
hesitated, then gave a nod.

Mr. Ventnor rose and extended his short legs before the fire.

"No, my boy," he said. "No!"

Unaccustomed to flat contradiction, Bob Pillin reddened.

"I'll bet you a tenner. Ask Scrivens."

Mr. Ventnor ejaculated:

"Scrivens---but they're not--" then, staring rather hard, he added: "I
won't bet. You may be right. Scrivens are your father's solicitors too,
aren't they? Always been sorry he didn't come to me. Shall we join the
ladies?" And to the drawing-room he preceded a young man more uncertain
in his mind than on his feet....

Charles Ventnor was not one to let you see that more was going on within
than met the eye. But there was a good deal going on that evening, and
after his conversation with young Bob he had occasion more than once to
turn away and rub his hands together. When, after that second creditors'
meeting, he had walked down the stairway which led to the offices of
"The Island Navigation Company," he had been deep in thought. Short,
squarely built, rather stout, with moustache and large mutton-chop
whiskers of a red brown, and a faint floridity in face and dress, he
impressed at first sight only by a certain truly British vulgarity.
One felt that here was a hail-fellow--well-met man who liked lunch and
dinner, went to Scarborough for his summer holidays, sat on his wife,
took his daughters out in a boat and was never sick. One felt that he
went to church every Sunday morning, looked upwards as he moved through
life, disliked the unsuccessful, and expanded w