The fount of riches and the Terror of the departments, clothed in the latest pattern of sumptuous pyjamas, lay in the midst of his magnificent and spacious bed, and, with the shaded electric globe over his brow, gazed at the splendours of the vast bedroom which Eve had allotted to him.  It was full, but not too full, of the finest Directoire furniture, and the walls were covered with all manner of engravings and watercolours.  Evidently this apartment had been the lair of the real owner and creator of the great home.  Mr. Prohack could appreciate the catholicity and sureness of taste which it displayed.  He liked the cornice as well as the form of the dressing-table, and the Cumberland landscape by C.J.  Holmes as well as the large Piranesi etching of an imaginary prison, which latter particularly interested him because it happened to be an impression between two “states”—­a detail which none but a true amateur could savour.  The prison depicted was a terrible place of torment, but it was beautiful, and the view of it made Mr. Prohack fancy, very absurdly, that he too was in prison, just as securely as if he had been bolted and locked therein.  His eye ranged about the room and saw nothing that was not lovely and that he did not admire.  Yet he derived little or no authentic pleasure from what he beheld, partly because it was the furnishing of a prison and partly because he did not own it.  He had often preached against the mania for owning things, but now—­and even more clearly than when he had sermonised Paul Spinner—­he perceived, and hated to perceive, that ownership was probably an essential ingredient of most enjoyments.  The man, foolishly priding himself on being a philosopher, was indeed a fleshly mass of strange inconsistencies.

More important, he was losing the assurance that he would sleep soundly that night.  He could not drag his mind off his co-heiress and his co-heir.  The sense of humiliation at being intimately connected and classed with them would not leave him.  He felt himself—­absurdly once again—­to be mysteriously associated with them in a piece of sharp practice or even of knavery.  They constituted another complication of his existence.  He wanted to disown them and never to speak to them again, but he knew that he could not disown them.  He was living in gorgeousness for the sole reason that he and they were in the same boat.

Eve came in, opening the door cautiously at first and then rushing forward as soon as she saw that the room was not in darkness.  He feared for an instant that she might upbraid him for deserting her.  But no!  Triumphant happiness sat on her forehead, and affectionate concern for him was in her eyes.  She plumped down, in her expensive radiance, on the bed by his side.

“Well?” said he.

“I’m so glad you decided to go to bed,” said she.  “You must be tired, and late nights don’t suit you.  I just slipped away for a minute to see if you were all right.  Are you?” She puckered her shining brow exactly as of old, and bent and kissed him as of old.  One of her best kisses.