In that saintly voice of hers she said: 

“I suppose you don’t realise that it’s a shock to me.  I don’t know what Ernest will think—­”

“Ernest be d—–­d.”

“I do wish, Father, you wouldn’t swear.”

Old Heythorp’s rage found vent in a sort of rumble.  How the devil had he gone on all these years in the same house with that woman, dining with her day after day!  But the servant had come back now, and putting down his fork he said: 

“Help me up!”

The man paused, thunderstruck, with the souffle balanced.  To leave dinner unfinished—­it was a portent!

“Help me up!”

“Mr. Heythorp’s not very well, Meller; take his other arm.”

The old man shook off her hand.

“I’m very well.  Help me up.  Dine in my own room in future.”

Raised to his feet, he walked slowly out; but in his sanctum he did not sit down, obsessed by this first overwhelming realisation of his helplessness.  He stood swaying a little, holding on to the table, till the servant, having finished serving dinner, brought in his port.

“Are you waiting to sit down, sir?”

He shook his head.  Hang it, he could do that for himself, anyway.  He must think of something to fortify his position against that woman.  And he said: 

“Send me Molly!”

“Yes, sir.”  The man put down the port and went.

Old Heythorp filled his glass, drank, and filled again.  He took a cigar from the box and lighted it.  The girl came in, a grey-eyed, dark-haired damsel, and stood with her hands folded, her head a little to one side, her lips a little parted.  The old man said: 

“You’re a human being.”

“I would hope so, sirr.”

“I’m going to ask you something as a human being—­not a servant—­see?”

“No, sirr; but I will be glad to do anything you like.”

“Then put your nose in here every now and then, to see if I want anything.  Meller goes out sometimes.  Don’t say anything; Just put your nose in.”

“Oh! an’ I will; ’tis a pleasure ’twill be to do ut.”

He nodded, and when she had gone lowered himself into his chair with a sense of appeasement.  Pretty girl!  Comfort to see a pretty face—­not a pale, peeky thing like Adela’s.  His anger burned up anew.  So she counted on his helplessness, had begun to count on that, had she?  She should see that there was life in the old dog yet!  And his sacrifice of the uneaten souffle, the still less eaten mushrooms, the peppermint sweet with which he usually concluded dinner, seemed to consecrate that purpose.  They all thought he was a hulk, without a shot left in the locker!  He had seen a couple of them at the Board that afternoon shrugging at each other, as though saying:  ‘Look at him!’ And young Farney pitying him.  Pity, forsooth!  And that coarse-grained solicitor chap at the creditors’ meeting curling his lip