During their descent upon the Metropolis of England, Mr. Walkingshaw and his son were residing at the Hotel Gigantique, that stately new pile in Piccadilly, so styled, it is understood, from the bills presented when you leave. On the morning after his evening spent with Charlie Munro, they met as usual at breakfast. Fortunately, the state of Mr. Walkingshaw’s health did not in the least seem to justify the forebodings of his friend. On the contrary, he tackled a fried sole with confidence, even with ardor, and put a great deal of cream into his coffee.

“What were you about last night?” he inquired genially.

“I dined with one or two fellows at the Rag,” said Frank.

“Doesn’t sound very lively,” observed his father, “that’s to say, at your age,” he hastened to add; for he still believed in retaining the confidence of his children.

Frank smiled dreamily. This “bust” in town was proving less solacing than he had hoped. Now that he had got here, he found himself too lovelorn to bust with any relish. At the same time, it was pleasant and soothing to enjoy each day the society of so charming a parent. Any disquietude he felt at the singular nature of the change had been allayed by one of his friends, an R.A.M.C. man, who assured him that a serious illness at his father’s time of life was not infrequently followed by a marked rejuvenation of the patient; so that he was able to regard with unqualified gratitude the generosity and kindness of the truant Writer to the Signet.

“What were you doing yourself?” he inquired presently.

“Dining with Colonel Munro,” replied his father, truthfully if a trifle meagerly.

He sipped his coffee, and then remarked-

“Poor Charlie Munro is growing old, I’m afraid. He knocks up very easily.”

He sighed and added, “It’s a melancholy thing, Frank, my boy, to see one’s old friends slipping away from one.”

“What! Is he seriously ill?” asked Frank.

“Oh, I don’t mean that. I mean-well, everything has its compensating disadvantages. Mine is that my contemporaries are outgrowing me. Charlie and I started the evening in capital style; he was up to anything, and I was on for anything. But by the end of the night we were quite out of sympathy. The fact is, he is still in the sixties. However, my duty has been done; I’ve seen him, and that’s over.”

He helped himself to some more fish, and continued with animation-

“Now I can carry out my idea! I may or may not set about it the right way, but I do want to make you all happy Frank.”

It was perhaps well for his continued equanimity that during the first part of this speech Frank was lost in contemplation of a singularly vivid image of Ellen Berstoun. She had a distracting habit of appearing like that to the young soldier, of which he was unable to cure her. He started out of his reverie with the last words.

“My dear father, you’re the best sportsman I know,” he replied warmly.

Mr. Walkingshaw looked highly gratified at this compliment.

“That’s what I’m aiming at,” he answered.

He leaned over the table and continued confidentially-

“Of course you are happy, Frank. There’s really nothing Providence could do for you except put a little money in your pocket, and give you a good time-eh?”

“Oh-er-nothing.”

“What’s the matter? That doesn’t sound very cheerful.”

“I assure you I’m as cheerful as-er-er-anything,” said Frank heroically.

“I was sure of it. But poor Jean-she’s got her troubles, eh, Frank?”

Frank warmed up at his sister’s name.

“She has,” he admitted.

Mr. Walkingshaw thoughtfully piled several slices of bacon on his plate. It would have reassured Colonel Munro greatly to have seen him.

“I wish I was sure that Vernon was good enough for her.”

Frank looked up quickly.

“I don’t think anybody is quite good enough for Jean; but Lucas Vernon is really a deuced fine fellow.”

Mr. Walkingshaw still seemed doubtful.

“A bit lazy, I’m afraid.”

“I assure you he’s not,” said Frank. “He works, sir, like the very dickens.”

“He can’t sell his pictures,” replied his father. “I’ll never believe in an artist till he can sell what he paints.”

“The difficulty for a painter is to get hold of the right man-the fellow with the money,” urged Frank.

“That’s a mere matter of time,” said his father; “they are sure to meet sooner or later, and then the point is, has he painted anything worth selling? If Vernon can manage to prove that, I may begin to believe in him. If he’s a fraud it is time the thing was stopped for Jean’s sake.”

He looked much more like the old Heriot Walkingshaw than he had for some weeks. Then he smiled, though still with an exceedingly shrewd air.

“Well,” he concluded, “we’ll see.”