‘I am quite aware of that, sir.’

’As for the money, something over a third of it is in my own hands.  I have not been extravagant myself, and have saved so much.  The remainder will come out of Mr. Bolton’s bank, and will be lent on mortgage.  I certainly shall not have cause for extravagance now, living here alone; and shall endeavour to free the estate from the burden by degrees.  When I die, it will, in accordance with my present purpose, go to your cousin George.’  As this was said, John thought he perceived something like a quiver in his father’s voice, which, up to that point, had been hard, clear, and unshaken.  ’As to that, however, I do not intend to pledge myself,’ he continued.  ’The estate will now be my own, subject to the claim from Messrs. Bolton’s bank.  I don’t know that there is anything else to be said.’

‘Not about business, sir.’

’And it is business, I suppose, that has brought you here,—­and to Cambridge.  I do not know what little things you have of your own in the house.’

‘Not much, sir.’

’If there be anything that you wish to take, take it.  But with you now, I suppose, money is the only possession that has any value.’

‘I should like to have the small portrait of you,—­the miniature.’

‘The miniature of me,’ said the father, almost scoffingly, looking up at his son’s face, suspiciously.  And yet, though he would not show it, he was touched.  Only if this were a ruse on the part of the young man, a mock sentiment, a little got-up theatrical pretence,—­then,—­then how disgraced he would be in his own estimation at having been moved by such mockery!

The son stood square before his father, disdaining any attempt to evince a supplicating tenderness either by his voice or by his features.  ’But, perhaps, you have a special value for it,’ he said.

’No, indeed.  It is others, not oneself, that ought to have such trifles,—­that is, if they are of value at all.’

‘There is none but myself that can care much for it.’

‘There is no one to care at all.  No one else that is,’ he added, wishing to avoid any further declaration.  ’Take that or anything else you want in the house.  There will be things left, I suppose,—­clothes and books and suchlike.’

’Hardly anything, sir.  Going so far, I had better give them away.  A few books I shall take.’  Then the conversation was over; and in a few minutes John Caldigate found himself roaming alone about the place.

It was so probable that he might never see it again!  Indeed it seemed to him now that were he to return to England with a fortune made, he would hardly come to Folking.  Years and years must roll by before that could be done.  If he could only come back to Cambridge and fetch that wife away with him, then he thought it would be better for him to live far from England, whether he were rich or whether he were poor.  It was quite evident that his father’s