It was after bank hours, but he was dozing in his private sitting-room at the bank, and his young nephew, Mr. Mortimer, was watching him.

Valentine had caused his card to be printed “Mr. Mortimer:”  he did not intend because he was landless, and but for his uncle’s bounty almost penniless, to forego the little portion of dignity which belonged to him.

The carriage stood at the door, and the horses now and then stamped in the lightly-falling snow, and were sometimes driven a little way down the street and back again to warm them.

At his usual time John had gone home, and then his father, while waiting for the carriage, had dropped asleep.

Though Valentine had wakened him more than once, and told him the men and horses were waiting, he had not shown any willingness to move.

“There’s plenty of time; I must have this sleep out first,” he said.

Then, when for the third time Valentine woke him, he roused himself.  “I think I can say it now,” he observed.  “I could not go home, you know, Val, till it was said.”

“Till what was said, uncle?”

“I forget,” was the answer.  “You must help me.”

Valentine suggested various things which had been discussed that day; but they did not help him, and he sank into thought.

“I hope I was not going to make any mistake,” he shortly said, and Valentine began to suppose he really had something particular to say.  “I think my dear brother and I decided for ever to hold our peace,” he next murmured, after a long pause.

Valentine was silent.  The allusion to his father made him remember how completely all the more active and eventful part of their lives had gone by for these two old men before he came into the world.

“What were you and John talking of just before he left?” said the old man, after a puzzled pause.

“Nothing of the least consequence,” answered Valentine, feeling that he had forgotten what he might have meant to say.  “John would be uneasy if he knew you were here still.  Shall we go home?”

“Not yet.  If I mentioned this, you would never tell it to my John.  There is no need that my John should ever have a hint of it.  You will promise not to tell him?”

“No, my dear uncle, indeed I could not think of such a thing,” said Valentine, now a little uneasy.  If his uncle really had something important to say, this was a strange request, and if he had not, his thoughts must be wandering.

“Well,” said Grand, in a dull, quiet voice, as of one satisfied and persuaded, “perhaps it is no duty of mine, then, to mention it.  But what was it that you and John were talking of just before he went away?”

“You and John were going to send your cards, to inquire after Mrs. A’Court, because she is ill.  I asked if mine might go too, and as it was handed across you took notice of what was on it, and said it pleased you; do you remember?  But John laughed about it.”