“Nonsense,” said Selwyn, colouring.

“It is. . . .  What do you do with your money?  Invest it, of course; but you ought to let me place it.  You never spend any; you should have a decent little sum tucked away by this time.  Do your Chaosite experiments cost anything now?”

“No; the Government is conducting them.”

“Good business.  What does the bally Government think of the powder, now?”

“I can’t tell yet,” said Selwyn listlessly.  “There’s a plate due to arrive to-morrow; it represents a section of the side armour of one of the new 22,000-ton battleships. . . .  I hope to crack it.”

“Oh!—­with a bursting charge?”

Selwyn nodded, and rested his head on his hand.

A little later Austin cast the remains of his cigar from him, straightened up, yawned, patted his waistcoat, and looked wisely at the cat.

“I’m going to bed,” he announced.  “Boots is to bring back Nina and Eileen. . . .  You don’t mind, do you, Phil?  I’ve a busy day to-morrow. . . .  There’s Scotch over there—­you know where things are.  Ring if you have a sudden desire for anything funny like peacock feathers on toast.  There’s cold grouse somewhere underground if you’re going to be an owl. . . .  And don’t feed that cat on the rugs. . . .  Good-night.”

“Good-night,” nodded Selwyn, relighting his cigar.

He had no intention of remaining very long; he supposed that his sister and Eileen would be out late, wherever they were, and he merely meant to dream a bit longer before going back to bed.

He had been smoking for half an hour perhaps, lying deep in his chair, worn features dully illuminated by the sinking fire; and he was thinking about going—­had again relighted his partly consumed cigar to help him with its fragrant companionship on his dark route homeward, when he heard a footfall on the landing, and turned to catch a glimpse of Gerald in overcoat and hat, moving silently toward the stairs.

“Hello, old fellow!” he said, surprised.  “I didn’t know you were in the house.”

The boy hesitated, turned, placed something just outside the doorway, and came quickly into the room.

“Philip!” he said with a curious, excited laugh, “I want to ask you something.  I never yet came to you without asking something and—­you never have failed me.  Would you tell me now what I had better do?”

“Certainly,” said Selwyn, surprised and smiling; “ask me, old fellow.  You’re not eloping with some nice girl, are you?”

“Yes,” said Gerald, calm in his excitement, “I am.”

“What?” repeated Selwyn gravely; “what did you say?

“You guessed it.  I came home and dressed and I’m going back to the Craigs’ to marry a girl whose mother and father won’t let me have her.”

“Sit down, Gerald,” said Selwyn, removing the cigar from his lips; but: 

“I haven’t time,” said the boy.  “I simply want to know what you’d do if you loved a girl whose mother means to send her to London to get rid of me and marry her to that yawning Elliscombe fellow who was over here. . . .  What would you do?  She’s too young to stand much of a siege in London—­some Englishman will get her if he persists—­and I mean to make her love me.”