“He will die, certainly.”

“Do not joke with me.  But I know you would not joke on such a subject.  And my question did not merely go to the state of his health.  What do you think of him as a man generally?  Do you call him an honest man?”

“How am I to answer you?”

“Just the truth.”

“If you will have an answer, I do not consider him an honest man.  All this story about your brother is true or is not true.  In neither case can one look upon him as honest.”

“Just so.”

“But I think that he has within him a capacity for love, and an unselfishness, which almost atones for his dishonesty; and there is about him a strange dislike to conventionality and to law which is so interesting as to make up the balance.  I have always regarded your father as a most excellent man, but thoroughly dishonest.  He would rob any one,—­but always to eke out his own gifts to other people.  He has, therefore, to my eyes been most romantic.”

“And as to his health?”

“Ah, as to that I cannot answer so decidedly.  He will do nothing because I tell him.”

“Do you mean that you could prolong his life?”

“Certainly I think that I could.  He has exerted himself this morning, whereas I have advised him not to exert himself.  He could have given himself the same counsel, and would certainly live longer by obeying it than the reverse.  As there is no difficulty in the matter, there need be no conceit on my part in saying that so far my advice might be of service to him.”

“How long will he live?”

“Who can say?  Sir William Brodrick, when that fearful operation was performed in London, thought that a month would see the end of it.  That is eight months ago, and he has more vitality now than he had then.  For myself, I do not think that he can live another month.”

Later on in the evening Mountjoy Scarborough began again.  “The governor thinks that you have behaved uncommonly well to him.”

“I am paid for it all.”

“But he has not left you anything by his will.”

“I have certainly expected nothing, and there could be no reason why he should.”

“He has entertained an idea of late that he wishes to make what reparation may be possible to me; and therefore, as he says, he does not choose to burden his will with legacies.  There is some provision made for my aunt, who, however, has her own fortune.  He has told me to look after you.”

“It will be quite unnecessary,” said Mr. Merton.

“If you choose to cut up rough you can do so.  I would propose that we should fix upon some sum which shall be yours at his death,—­just as though he had left it to you.  Indeed, he shall fix the sum himself.”

Merton, of course, said that nothing of the kind would be necessary; but with this understanding Mountjoy Scarborough went that night to bed.

Early on the following morning his father again sent for him.  “Mountjoy,” he said, “I have thought much about it, and I have changed my mind.”