“Because enthusiasm alone may not command wealth,” said a deep voice near them.

Papa had come upon them unobserved.  The young man wheeled and charged while his blood was hot.

“Mr. De Jussac, it is a shame to hold me in this unending suspense.”

“Is it not better than decided rejection?”

“I have served like Jacob.  You cannot doubt my single-hearted devotion?”

“I doubt nothing, my George” (about his accent there was no tender compromise)—­“I doubt nothing, but that the balance at your bankers’ is excessive.”

“You would not value Plancine at so much bullion?”

“But yes, my friend; for bullion is the algebraic formula that represents comfort.  When Black Venn slips his apron—­”

George made a gesture of impatience.

“When Black Venn slips his apron,” repeated the father quietly, “I shall be in a position to consider your suit.”

“That is tantamount to putting me off altogether.  It is ungenerous.  It is preposterous.  You may or may not be right; but it is simply farcical (Plancine cried, “George!”—­but he went on warmly, nevertheless) to make our happiness contingent on the possible tumbling down of a bit of old cliff—­an accident that, after all, may never happen.”

“Ah!” the quiet, strong voice went on; and in the old eyes turned moonwards one might have fancied one could read a certain pathos of abnegation, or approaching self-sacrifice; “but it will, and shortly, for I prophesy.  It was no idle cruelty of mine that first suggested this condition, but a natural reluctance to sign myself back to utter loneliness.”

Plancine cried, “Papa! papa!” and sprang into his arms.

“A little patience,” said De Jussac, pressing his moustache to the round head, “and you will honour this weary prophet, I think.  I was up on the cliff to-day.  The great crack is ever widening.  A bowling wind, a loud thunderstorm, and that apron of the hill will tear from its bondage and sink sweltering down the slopes.”

In the moment of speaking a tremor seized all his limbs, his eyes glared maniacal, his outstretched arm pointed seawards.

“The guillotine!” he shrieked, “the guillotine!”

In the offing of the bay was a vessel making for the unseen harbour below.  It stood up black against the moonlight, its sails and yards presenting some fantastic resemblance to that engine of blood.

George stepped back and hung his head embarrassed.  He had more than once been witness of a like seizure.  It was the guillotine fright—­the fright that had smitten the boy of fourteen, and had pursued the man ever since with periodic attacks of illusion.  Anything—­a branch, a door-post, a window, would suggest the hateful form during those periods—­happily brief—­when the poor mind was temporarily unhinged.  No doubt, in earlier years, the fits had occurred frequently.  Now they were rare, and generally, it seemed, attributable to some strong excitement or emotion.