And now the thing was coming to an end.  Unless in this way or in that he could save it, what remained of the old place, for the outlying lands had long since been sold, must go to the hammer and become the property of some pushing and successful person who desired to found a family, and perhaps in days to be would claim these very pictures that hung upon the walls as those of his own ancestors, declaring that he had brought in the estate because he was a relative of the ancient and ruined race.

Well, it was the way of the world, and perhaps it must be so, but the thought of it made Alan Vernon sad.  If he could have continued that business, it might have been otherwise.  By this hour his late partners, Sir Robert Aylward and Mr. Champers-Haswell, were doubtless sitting in their granite office in the City, probably in consultation with Lord Specton, who had taken his place upon the Board of the great Company which was being subscribed that day.  No doubt applications for shares were pouring in by the early posts and by telegram, and from time to time Mr. Jeffreys respectfully reported their number and amount, while Sir Robert looked unconcerned and Mr. Haswell rubbed his hands and whistled cheerfully.  Almost he could envy them, these men who were realizing great fortunes amidst the bustle and excitement of that fierce financial life, whilst he stood penniless and stared at the trees and the ewes which wandered among them with their lambs, he who, after all his work, was but a failure.  With a sigh he turned away to fetch his cap and go out walking—­there was a tenant whom he must see, a shifty, new-fangled kind of man who was always clamouring for fresh buildings and reductions in his rent.  How was he to pay for more buildings?  He must put him off, or let him go.

Just then a sharp sound caught his ear, that of an electric bell.  It came from the telephone which, since he had been a member of a City firm, he had caused to be put into Yarleys at considerable expense in order that he might be able to communicate with the office in London.  “Were they calling him up from force of habit?” he wondered.  He went to the instrument which was fixed in a little room he used as a study, and took down the receiver.

“Who is it?” he asked.  “I am Yarleys.  Alan Vernon.”

“And I am Barbara,” came the answer.  “How are you, dear?  Did you sleep well?”

“No, very badly.”

“Nerves—­Alan, you have got nerves.  Now although I had a worse day than you did, I went to bed at nine, and protected by a perfect conscience, slumbered till nine this morning, exactly twelve hours.  Isn’t it clever of me to think of this telephone, which is more than you would ever have done?  My uncle has departed to London vowing that no letter from you shall enter this house, but he forgot that there is a telephone in every room, and in fact at this moment I am speaking round by his office within a yard or two of his head.  However, he can’t hear, so that doesn’t matter.  My blessing be on the man who invented telephones, which hitherto I have always thought an awful nuisance.  Are you feeling cheerful, Alan?”