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Then the coffee boiled, and Hayward poured out some for Jim and himself. He had a little silver service at hand, and willow-ware cups and saucers. Presently Sam appeared, and Hayward gave orders concerning luncheon.

“Tell Miss Louisa we are to have it served here,” said he, “and mind, Sam, the chops are to be thick and cooked the way we like them; and don’t forget the East India chutney, Sam.”

“It does seem rather a pity that you cannot have chutney at home with your chops, when you are so fond of it,” remarked Hayward when Sam had gone.

“Mis’ Adkins says it will give me liver trouble, and she isn’t strong enough to nurse.”

“So you have to eat her ketchup?”

“Well, she doesn’t put seasoning in it,” admitted Jim. “But Mis’ Adkins doesn’t like seasoning herself, and I don’t mind.”

“And I know the chops are never cut thick, the way we like them.”

“Mis’ Adkins likes her meat well done, and she can’t get such thick chops well done. I suppose our chops are rather thin, but I don’t mind.”

“Beefsteak and chops, both cut thin, and fried up like sole-leather. I know!” said Dr. Hayward, and he stamped his foot with unregenerate force.

“I don’t mind a bit, Edward.”

“You ought to mind, when it is your own house, and you buy the food and pay your housekeeper. It is an outrage!”

“I don’t mind, really, Edward.”

Dr. Hayward regarded Jim with a curious expression compounded of love, anger, and contempt. “Any more talk of legal proceedings?” he asked, brusquely.

Jim flushed. “Tom ought not to tell of that.”

“Yes, he ought; he ought to tell it all over town. He doesn’t, but he ought. It is an outrage! Here you have been all these years supporting your nieces, and they are working away like field-mice, burrowing under your generosity, trying to get a chance to take action and appropriate your property and have you put under a guardian.”

“I don’t mind a bit,” said Jim; “but –“

The other man looked inquiringly at him, and, seeing a pitiful working of his friend’s face, he jumped up and got a little jar from a shelf. “We will drop the whole thing until we have had our chops and chutney,” said he. “You are right; it is not worth minding. Here is a new brand of tobacco I want you to try. I don’t half like it, myself, but you may.”

Jim, with a pleased smile, reached out for the tobacco, and the two men smoked until Sam brought the luncheon. It was well cooked and well served on an antique table. Jim was thoroughly happy. It was not until the luncheon was over and another pipe smoked that the troubled, perplexed expression returned to his face.

“Now,” said Hayward, “out with it!”

“It is only the old affair about Alma and Amanda, but now it has taken on a sort of new aspect.”

“What do you mean by a new aspect?”

“It seems,” said Jim, slowly, “as if they were making it so I couldn’t do for them.”

Hayward stamped his foot. “That does sound new,” he said, dryly. “I never thought Alma Beecher or Amanda Bennet ever objected to have you do for them.”

“Well,” said Jim, “perhaps they don’t now, but they want me to do it in their own way. They don’t want to feel as if I was giving and they taking; they want it to seem the other way round. You see, if I were to deed over my property to them, and then they allowance me, they would feel as if they were doing the giving.”

“Jim, you wouldn’t be such a fool as that?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” replied Jim, simply. “They wouldn’t know how to take care of it, and Mis’ Adkins would be left to shift for herself. Joe Beecher is real good-hearted, but he always lost every dollar he touched. No, there wouldn’t be any sense in that. I don’t mean to give in, but I do feel pretty well worked up over it.”