To-night the presence of the pictures merely increased the excitement which was the background of his mind.  He talked about them a good deal at dinner, wondering secretly all the time, what it would be like to do without them—­without Flood—­without his old butler there—­without everything.

Douglas came down late, and was very silent and irresponsive.  He too was morbidly conscious of the pictures, though he wished his father wouldn’t talk about them.  He was conscious of everything that meant money—­of his mother’s pearls for instance, which she wore every evening without thinking about them.  If he did well with the pictures on the morrow she might, perhaps, justly keep them, as a dowry for Nelly.  But if not—­He found himself secretly watching his mother, wondering how she would take it all when she really understood—­what sort of person she would turn out to be in the new life to which they were all helplessly tending.

After dinner, he followed his father into the smoking room.

“Where is the catalogue of the pictures, father?”

“In the library, Duggy, to the right hand of the fire-place.  I paid a fellow a very handsome sum for making it—­a fellow who knew a lot—­a real expert.  But, of course, when we published it, all the other experts tore it to pieces.”

“If I bring it, will you go through it with me?”

Sir Arthur shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t think I will, Duggy.  The catalogue—­there are a great many marginal notes on it which the published copies haven’t got—­will tell you all I know about them, and a great deal more.  And you’ll find a loose paper at the beginning, on which I’ve noted down the prices people have offered me for them from time to time.  Like their impudence, I used to think!  I leave it to you, old boy.  I know it’s a great responsibility for a young fellow like you.  But the fact is—­I’m pumped.  Besides, when they make their offer, we can talk it over.  I think I’ll go and play a game of backgammon with your mother.”

He threw away his cigar, and Douglas, angry at what seemed to him his father’s shirking, stood stiffly aside to let him pass.  Sir Arthur opened the door.  He seemed to walk uncertainly, and he stooped a great deal.  From the hall outside, he looked back at his son.

“I think I shall see M’Clintock next time I’m in town, Duggy.  I’ve had some queer pains across my chest lately.”

“Indigestion?” said Douglas.  His tone was casual.

“Perhaps.  Oh, they’re nothing.  But it’s best to take things in time.”

He walked away, leaving his son in a state of seething irritation.  Extraordinary that a man could think of trumpery ailments at such a time!  It was unlike his father too, whose personal fitness and soundness, whether on the moors, in the hunting field, or in any other sort of test, had always been triumphantly assumed by his family, as part of the general brilliance of Sir Arthur’s role in life.