His voice trembled with self-pity.

“Do you realize a fraction of the awful things you have let me in for?  How on earth am I to remember whether I go in before the chef or after the third footman?  I shan’t have a peaceful minute while I’m in this place.  I’ve got to sit and listen by the hour to a bore of a butler who seems to be a sort of walking hospital.  I’ve got to steer my way through a complicated system of etiquette.

“And on top of all that you have the nerve, the insolence, to imagine that you can use me as a punching bag to work your bad temper off!  You have the immortal rind to suppose that I will stand for being nagged and bullied by you whenever your suicidal way of living brings on an attack of indigestion!  You have the supreme gall to fancy that you can talk as you please to me!

“Very well!  I’ve had enough of it.  I resign!  If you want this scarab of yours recovered let somebody else do it.  I’ve retired from business.”

He took another step toward the door.  A shaking hand clutched at his sleeve.

“My boy—­my dear boy—­be reasonable!”

Ashe was intoxicated with his own oratory.  The sensation of bullyragging a genuine millionaire was new and exhilarating.  He expanded his chest and spread his feet like a colossus.

“That’s all very well,” he said, coldly disentangling himself from the hand.  “You can’t get out of it like that.  We have got to come to an understanding.  The point is that if I am to be subjected to your—­your senile malevolence every time you have a twinge of indigestion, no amount of money could pay me to stop on.”

“My dear boy, it shall not occur again.  I was hasty.”

Mr. Peters, with agitated fingers, relit the stump of his cigar.

“Throw away that cigar!”

“My boy!”

“Throw it away!  You say you were hasty.  Of course you were hasty; and as long as you abuse your digestion you will go on being hasty.  I want something better than apologies.  If I am to stop here we must get to the root of things.  You must put yourself in my hands as though I were your doctor.  No more cigars.  Every morning regular exercises.”

“No, no!”

“Very well!”

“No; stop!  Stop!  What sort of exercises?”

“I’ll show you to-morrow morning.  Brisk walks.”

“I hate walking.”

“Cold baths.”

“No, no!”

“Very well!”

“No; stop!  A cold bath would kill me at my age.”

“It would put new life into you.  Do you consent to the cold baths?  No?  Very well!”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

“You promise?”

“Yes, yes!”

“All right, then.”

The distant sound of the dinner gong floated in.

“We settled that just in time,” said Ashe.

Mr. Peters regarded him fixedly.

“Young man,” he said slowly, “if, after all this, you fail to recover my Cheops for me I’ll—­I’ll—­By George, I’ll skin you!”