doubt rising in his mind as to whether, his disclaimer notwithstanding,
Philip had not sincerely meant all he said.

"He is shockingly changed," he mused, "and I am not sure that it is a
change for the better. Poor fellow, he has a great deal to bear, and
should be kindly judged. It is all so painful that I must try to
divert my mind. Mrs. Brown, will you bring me a little chocolate-
coloured book, that you will see on the table in my study, when you
come back with the potatoes? It has Plato--P-l-a-t-o--printed on the
back."

CHAPTER XIV

The jubilation of George at the turn events had taken may perhaps be
more easily imagined than described. There is generally one weak point
about all artful schemes to keep other people out of their rights;
they break down over some unforeseen detail, or through the neglect of
some trivial and obvious precaution. But this was one of the glorious
instances to the contrary that prove the rule. Nothing had broken
down, everything had prospered as a holy cause always should, and does
--in theory. The stars in their courses had fought for Sisera,
everything had succeeded beyond expectation, nothing had failed. In
the gratitude of his heart, George would willingly have given a
thousand pounds towards the establishment of a training-school for
anonymous letter-writers, or the erection of a statue to Hilda
Caresfoot, whose outraged pride and womanly jealousy had done him such
yeoman service.

Speaking seriously, he had great cause for rejoicing. Instead of a
comparatively slender younger son's portion, he had stepped into a
fine and unencumbered property of over five thousand a year, and that
in the heyday of his youth, when in the full possession of all his
capacities for enjoyment, which were large indeed. Henceforth
everything that money could buy would be his, including the respect
and flattery of his poorer neighbours. An added flavour too was given
to the overflowing cup of his good fortune by the fact that it had
been wrenched from the hands of the cousin whom he hated, and on whom
he had from a boy sworn to be avenged. Poor Philip! bankrupt in honour
and broken in fortune, he could afford to pity him now, to pity him
ostentatiously and in public. He was open-handed with his pity was
George. Nor did he lack a sympathizer in these delicious moments of
unexpected triumph.

"Did I not tell you," said Mrs. Bellamy, in her full, rich tones, on
the af