Please God, he would win her!—­and through a piece of honourable work—­the cleansing of an ugly corner of human life.  A nobler ambition than he had ever yet been conscious of, entered in.  He felt himself a better man, with a purpose in the world.

Nor, at this critical moment, did he forget his uncle—­the man who had been a father to him in his orphaned boyhood.  What pleasure the dear old fellow would have taken in this new opening—­and in Melrose’s marvellous possessions!  By the way—­Melrose had said nothing about the gems for a long time past, and Faversham was well content to leave them in his temporary keeping.  But his superstitious feeling about them—­and all men have some touch of superstition—­was stronger than ever.  It was as though he protested anew to some hovering shape, which took the aspect now of Mackworth, now of Fortuna—­“Stand by me!—­even as I hold by them.”

The chiming clock in the gallery—­a marvel of French horlogerie, made for the Regent Orleans—­had just finished striking eleven.  Melrose, who had been speaking with energy through the soft, repeated notes, threw himself back in his chair, and lit a cigarette.  His white hair shone against the panelled background of the room, and, beneath it, framed in bushy brows still black, a pair of menacing eyes fixed themselves on Faversham.

Faversham remained for a minute at the table, looking down upon it, his hand resting on the document from which he had been reading.  Then he too pushed his chair slowly backward, and looked up.

“I understand then, Mr. Melrose, that these proposals of mine do not meet with your approval?”

“I have told you what I approve.”

“You have approved a few matters—­of minor importance.  But my chief proposals”—­he ran his finger lightly over the pages of his memorandum, enumerating the various headings—­“these, if I have understood you correctly, are not to your mind, and you refuse to sanction them?”

The face before him was as iron.

“Let half these things wait, I tell you, and they will settle themselves.  I pointed out to you when we made our bargain, that I would not have my estate run on any damned Socialist principles.”

Faversham smiled; but he had grown very pale.  “Your financial profit, Mr. Melrose, and the business management of your property have been my sole concern.”

“I am sure that you think so.  But as to what is profit and what is business, you must allow me to be the final judge.”

Faversham thought a moment, then rose, and walked quietly up and down the length of the room, his hands in his pockets.  The old man watched him, his haughty look and regular features illuminated by the lamp beside him.  In front of him was the famous French table, crowded as usual with a multitude of miscellaneous objets d’art, conspicuous among them a pair of Tanagra figures, white visions of pure grace, amid the dusty confusion of their surroundings.