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“As–as what?”

“As meeting you again, of course. When I saw you on the vessel I knew you at once. You have not changed at all, unless expansion can be called a change.”

“Nor have you, Eustace, unless contraction can be called a change. Your waist used to be bigger, you know.”

“Ah, George, I drank beer in those days; it is one of things of which I have lived to see the folly. In fact, there are not many things of which I have not lived to see the folly.”

“Except living itself, I suppose?”

“Exactly–except living. I have no wish to follow the example of our poor cousins,” he answered with a sigh, “to whose considerate behaviour, however,” he added, brightening, “we owe our present improved position.” Then came a pause.

“Fourteen years is a long time, George; you must have had a rough time of it.”

“Yes, pretty rough. I have seen a good deal of irregular service, you know.”

“And never got anything out of it, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes; I have got my bread and butter, which is all I am worth.”

Sir Eustace looked at his brother doubtfully through his eyeglass. “You are modest,” he said; “that does not do. You must have a better opinion of yourself if you want to get on in the world.”

“I don’t want to get on. I am quite content to earn a living, and I am modest because I have seen so many better men fare worse.”

“But now you need not earn a living any more. What do you propose to do? Live in town? I can set you going in a very good lot. You will be quite a lion with that hole in your cheek–by the way, you must tell me the story. And then, you see, if anything happens to me you stand in for the title and estates. That will be quite enough to float you.”

Bottles writhed uneasily in his chair. “Thank you, Eustace; but really I must ask you–in short, I don’t want to be floated or anything of the sort. I would rather go back to South Africa and my volunteer corps. I would indeed. I hate strangers, and society, and all that sort of thing. I’m not fit for it like you.”

“Then what do you mean to do–get married and live in the country?”

Bottles coloured a little through his sun-tanned skin–a fact that did not escape the eyeglass of his observant brother. “No, I am not going to get married, certainly not.”

“By the way,” said Sir Eustace carelessly, “I saw your old flame, Lady Croston, yesterday, and told her you were coming home. She makes a charming widow.”

“What!” ejaculated his brother, slowly raising himself out of his chair in astonishment. “Is her husband dead?”

“Dead? Yes, died a year ago, and a good riddance too. He appointed me one of his executors; I am sure I don’t know why, for we never liked each other. I think he was the most disagreeable fellow I ever knew. They say he gave his wife a roughish time of it occasionally. Serve her right, too.”

“Why did it serve her right?”

Sir Eustace shrugged his shoulders.

“When a heartless girl jilts the fellow she is engaged to in order to sell herself to an elderly beast, I think she deserves all she gets. This one did not get half enough; indeed, she has made a good thing of it–better than she expected.”

His brother sat down again before he answered in a constrained voice, “Don’t you think you are rather hard on her, Eustace?”

“Hard on her? No, not a bit of it. Of all the worthless women that I know, I think Madeline Croston is the most worthless. Look how she treated you.”

“Eustace,” broke in his brother almost sharply, “if you don’t mind, I wish you would not talk of her like that to me. I can’t–in short, I don’t like it.”

Sir Eustace’s eyeglass dropped out of Sir Eustace’s eye–he had opened it so wide to stare at his brother. “Why, my dear fellow,” he ejaculated, “you don’t mean to tell me you still care for that woman?”