d enough of wild oats. Fill your niche in Society and
Clubdom, if you like. Be a butterfly and an ornament, if you feel no
inclination for anything better. But be a gentleman--be honorable. If
you ever forget yourself, and bring a shadow of shame upon the unsullied
names of Chesney or Nevill, by gad, sir, you shall never touch a penny
of my money. I will leave it all to charities, and turn Priory Court
into a hospital. Mark that! If you go wrong, I'll hear of it. I'm good
for twenty years yet, if I'm good for a day."

"You seem to have a very bad opinion of me, Uncle Lucius. I never give
your fortune a thought. As for the honor of the family, it is as dear to
me as it is to you."

"Glad to hear you say it, my boy," replied Sir Lucius, breathlessly. "It
shows spirit. Well, I hope you'll overlook my sharp words. I meant them
for your good. And if you want a check--"

"Thanks, awfully, but I don't need it," Victor interrupted, with a
stroke of inspiration. "My income keeps me going all right. It is only
in trifles that I am extravagant. I have inherited a taste, sir, for
good cigars and old brandy."

"You dog, of course you have. Your maternal grandfather was noted for
his wine cellar, and he bought his Havanas by the thousand from Fribourg
and Treyer. That I should prefer cheroots is rank degeneracy. But I must
be off, or I shall get no sleep. I won't ask you to come down to the
dock in the morning--"

"But I insist upon coming, sir."

"Then breakfast with me at Morley's--nine o'clock sharp."

Uncle and nephew parted on the best of terms, but Sir Lucius was not
altogether easy in mind as he walked down Regent street, tapping the
now deserted pavement with his stick.

"I hope the boy is trustworthy," he thought. "He has some excuse for
recklessness and extravagance, but none for dishonor. I told him the
name of Chesney was unsullied--I forgot for a moment. It is strange that
Mary should be so much in my mind lately. Poor girl! Perhaps I was too
harsh with her. I wonder if she is still alive--if she has a son. But if
she came to me this moment, I could not forgive her. Nearly thirty years
have not softened me."

He sighed heavily as he entered Trafalgar Square, and to a wretched
woman with an infant in her arms, crouching under the shadow of the
Nelson Column, he tossed a silver piece.

CHAPTER X.

A LONDON SENSATION.

It had rained most of the afternoon, and then cleared off beautifully
just before