ould have at a public school."

"What may those be?" inquired the old gentleman.

"Oh, heaps of things. Pocket-money, for one thing. I was telling mother
about it. I really should have more, if I'm to stay properly at school.
There's Dick Colethorne, where I was staying last holidays--cousins of
ours; he has six times what I have, and he's only two years older."

"And--is his mother a widow, and in somewhat restricted circumstances?"
asked Mr. Byrne.

"Oh no," replied Geoff, unwarily. "His father's a very rich man; and
Dick is the only child."

"All the same, begging Mr. Colethorne's pardon, if he were twenty times
as rich as Croesus, I think he's making a tremendous mistake in giving
his boy a great deal of pocket-money," said Mr. Byrne.

"Well, of course, I shouldn't want as much as he has," said Geoff; "but
still----"

"Geoffrey, my boy," said the old gentleman, rising as he spoke, "it
strikes me you're getting on a wrong tack. But we'll have some more talk
about all this. I don't want to keep your mother waiting, as I promised
to talk some more to _her_ this evening. So we'll go upstairs. Some day,
perhaps, I'll tell you some of the experiences of _my_ boyhood. I'm
glad, by-the-by, to see that you don't take wine."

"No-o," said Geoff. "That's one of the things mother is rather fussy
about. I'd like to talk about it with you, sir; I don't see but that at
my age I might now and then take a glass of sherry--or of claret, even.
It looks so foolish never to touch any. It's not that I _care_ about
it, you know."

"At your age?" repeated Mr. Byrne, slowly. "Well, Geoff--do you know, I
don't quite agree with you. Nor do I see the fun of taking a thing you
'don't care about,' just for the sake of looking as if those who had the
care of you didn't know what they were about."

They were half-way upstairs by this time. Geoff's face did not wear its
pleasantest expression as they entered the drawing-room.

"He's a horrid old curmudgeon," he whispered to Vicky; "I believe Elsa's
been setting him against me."

Vicky looked at him with reproachful eyes. "Oh, Geoff," she said, "I do
think he's so nice."

"You do, do you?" said he. "Well, I don't. I'll tell you what, Vicky;
I've a great mind to run away. I do so hate this life. I work ever so
much harder than most of the fellows, and I never get any thanks for it;
and everything I want is grudged me. My umbrella's all in rags, and I'm
ashamed to take it out; and if I