morning, papa dear. Katie found you here when
she came in to dust the room. The window was wide open and all these
things strewn about the floor. She put the rug on you and came to wake
me. What is it? What's happened? Let me send for the doctor."

With his elbow on his knee, he rested his forehead on his hand. The
incidents of the night came back to him. Olivia seated herself on the
couch beside him, an arm across his shoulder.

"I'm cold," was all he said.

"Katie, go and mix something hot--some whisky or brandy and hot
water--anything! And you, papa dear, go to bed. I'll call Reynolds and
he'll help you."

"I'm cold," he said again.

Rising, he crawled to the mirror into which he had looked last night,
shuddering at sight of his own face. The mere fact that he was still in
his evening clothes, the white waistcoat wrinkled and the cravat awry,
shocked him inexpressibly.

"I'm cold," he said for the third time.

But when he had bathed, dressed, and begun his breakfast, the chill left
him. He regained the mastery of his thoughts and the understanding of
his position. A certain exaltation of suffering which had upheld him
during the previous night failed him, however, now, leaving nothing but
a sense of flat, commonplace misery. Thrown into relief by the daylight,
the facts were more relentless--not easier of acceptance.

As he drank his coffee and tried to eat he could feel his daughter
watching him from the other end of the table. Now and then he screened
himself from her gaze by pretending to skim the morning paper. Once he
was startled. Reflected in the glass of a picture hanging on the
opposite wall he caught the image of a man in a blue uniform, who
mounted the steps and rang the door-bell.

"Who's that?" he asked, sharply. He dared not turn round to see.

"It's only the postman, papa darling. Who else should it be?"

"Yes; of course." He breathed again. "You mustn't mind me, dear. I'm
nervous. I'm--I'm not very well."

"I see you're not, papa. I saw it last night. I knew something was
wrong."

"There's something--very wrong."

"What is it? Tell me."

Leaning on the table, with clasped hands uplifted, the loose white lace
sleeves falling away from her slender wrists, she looked at him
pleadingly.

"We've--that is, I've--lost a great deal of money."

"Oh!" The sound was just above her breath. Then, after long silence, she
asked: "Is it much?"

He waited before replying, seeking, for the last