“Let me send for Dr. Dawney, Uncle?”

“No—­no!  Plenty of him when I get home.  Very good young fellow, as doctors go, but I can’t stand his puddin’s—­slops and puddin’s, and all that trumpery medicine on the top.  Send me Dominique, my dear—­I’ll put myself to rights a bit!” He fingered his unshaven cheek, and clutched the gown together on his chest.  “Got this from the landlord.  When you come back we’ll have a little talk!”

He was asleep when she came into the room an hour later.  Watching his uneasy breathing, she wondered what it was that he was going to say.

He looked ill!  And suddenly she realised that her thoughts were not of him....  When she was little he would take her on his back; he had built cocked hats for her and paper boats; had taught her to ride; slid her between his knees; given her things without number; and taken his payment in kisses.  And now he was ill, and she was not thinking of him!  He had been all that was most dear to her, yet before her eyes would only come the vision of another.

Mr. Treffry woke suddenly.  “Not been asleep, have I?  The beds here are infernal hard.”

“Uncle Nic, won’t you give me news of him?”

Mr. Treffry looked at her, and Christian could not bear that look.

“He’s safe into Italy; they aren’t very keen after him, it’s so long ago; I squared ’em pretty easily.  Now, look here, Chris!”

Christian came close; he took her hand.

“I’d like to see you pull yourself together.  ’Tisn’t so much the position; ’tisn’t so much the money; because after all there’s always mine—­” Christian shook her head.  “But,” he went on with shaky emphasis, “there’s the difference of blood, and that’s a serious thing; and there’s this anarch—­this political affair; and there’s the sort of life, an’ that’s a serious thing; but—­what I’m coming to is this, Chris—­there’s the man!”

Christian drew away her hand.  Mr. Treffry went on: 

“Ah! yes.  I’m an old chap and fond of you, but I must speak out what I think.  He’s got pluck, he’s strong, he’s in earnest; but he’s got a damned hot temper, he’s an egotist, and—­he’s not the man for you.  If you marry him, as sure as I lie here, you’ll be sorry for it.  You’re not your father’s child for nothing; nice fellow as ever lived, but soft as butter.  If you take this chap, it’ll be like mixing earth and ironstone, and they don’t blend!” He dropped his head back on the pillows, and stretching out his hand, repeated wistfully:  “Take my word for it, my dear, he’s not the man for you.”

Christian, staring at the wall beyond, said quietly:  “I can’t take any one’s word for that.”

“Ah!” muttered Mr. Treffry, “you’re obstinate enough, but obstinacy isn’t strength.

“You’ll give up everything to him, you’ll lick his shoes; and you’ll never play anything but second fiddle in his life.  He’ll always be first with himself, he and his work, or whatever he calls painting pictures; and some day you’ll find that out.  You won’t like it, and I don’t like it for you, Chris, and that’s flat.”