“I’m cold,” was all he said.

“Katie, go and mix something hot—­some whisky or brandy and hot water—­anything!  And you, papa dear, go to bed.  I’ll call Reynolds and he’ll help you.”

“I’m cold,” he said again.

Rising, he crawled to the mirror into which he had looked last night, shuddering at sight of his own face.  The mere fact that he was still in his evening clothes, the white waistcoat wrinkled and the cravat awry, shocked him inexpressibly.

“I’m cold,” he said for the third time.

But when he had bathed, dressed, and begun his breakfast, the chill left him.  He regained the mastery of his thoughts and the understanding of his position.  A certain exaltation of suffering which had upheld him during the previous night failed him, however, now, leaving nothing but a sense of flat, commonplace misery.  Thrown into relief by the daylight, the facts were more relentless—­not easier of acceptance.

As he drank his coffee and tried to eat he could feel his daughter watching him from the other end of the table.  Now and then he screened himself from her gaze by pretending to skim the morning paper.  Once he was startled.  Reflected in the glass of a picture hanging on the opposite wall he caught the image of a man in a blue uniform, who mounted the steps and rang the door-bell.

“Who’s that?” he asked, sharply.  He dared not turn round to see.

“It’s only the postman, papa darling.  Who else should it be?”

“Yes; of course.”  He breathed again.  “You mustn’t mind me, dear.  I’m nervous.  I’m—­I’m not very well.”

“I see you’re not, papa.  I saw it last night.  I knew something was wrong.”

“There’s something—­very wrong.”

“What is it?  Tell me.”

Leaning on the table, with clasped hands uplifted, the loose white lace sleeves falling away from her slender wrists, she looked at him pleadingly.

“We’ve—­that is, I’ve—­lost a great deal of money.”

“Oh!” The sound was just above her breath.  Then, after long silence, she asked:  “Is it much?”

He waited before replying, seeking, for the last time, some mitigation of what he had to tell her.

“It’s all we have.”

“Oh!” It was the same sound as before, just audible—­a sound with a little surprise in it, a hint of something awed, but without dismay.

He forced himself to take a few sips of coffee and crumble a bit of toast.

“I don’t mind, papa.  If that’s what’s troubling you so much, don’t let it any longer.  Worse things have happened than that.”  He gulped down more coffee, not because he wanted it, but to counteract the rising in his throat.  “Shall we have to lose Tory Hill?” she asked, after another silence.

He nodded an affirmative, with his head down.

“Then you mean me to understand what you said just now—­quite literally.  We’ve lost all we have.”