Old Heythorp nodded, and Mr. Brownbee, with a little bow, clasped his hat to his breast and moved towards the door.  The nine gentlemen followed.  Mr. Ventnor, bringing up the rear, turned and looked back.  But the old man’s eyes were already closed again.

The moment his creditors were gone, old Heythorp sounded the hand-bell.

“Help me up, Mr. Farney.  That Ventnor—­what’s his holding?”

“Quite small.  Only ten shares, I think.”

“Ah!  What time is it?”

“Quarter to four, sir.”

“Get me a taxi.”

After visiting his bank and his solicitors he struggled once more into his cab and caused it to be driven towards Millicent Villas.  A kind of sleepy triumph permeated his whole being, bumped and shaken by the cab’s rapid progress.  So!  He was free of those sharks now so long as he could hold on to his Companies; and he would still have a hundred a year or more to spare for Rosamund and her youngsters.  He could live on four hundred, or even three-fifty, without losing his independence, for there would be no standing life in that holy woman’s house unless he could pay his own scot!  A good day’s work!  The best for many a long month!

The cab stopped before the villa.

3

There are rooms which refuse to give away their owners, and rooms which seem to say:  ‘They really are like this.’  Of such was Rosamund Larne’s—­a sort of permanent confession, seeming to remark to anyone who entered:  ’Her taste?  Well, you can see—­cheerful and exuberant; her habits—­yes, she sits here all the morning in a dressing-gown, smoking cigarettes and dropping ink; kindly observe my carpet.  Notice the piano—­it has a look of coming and going, according to the exchequer.  This very deep-cushioned sofa is permanent, however; the water-colours on the walls are safe, too—­they’re by herself.  Mark the scent of mimosa—­she likes flowers, and likes them strong.  No clock, of course.  Examine the bureau—­she is obviously always ringing for “the drumstick,” and saying:  “Where’s this, Ellen, and where’s that?  You naughty gairl, you’ve been tidying.”  Cast an eye on that pile of manuscript—­she has evidently a genius for composition; it flows off her pen—­like Shakespeare, she never blots a line.  See how she’s had the electric light put in, instead of that horrid gas; but try and turn either of them on—­you can’t; last quarter isn’t paid, of course; and she uses an oil lamp, you can tell that by the ceiling:  The dog over there, who will not answer to the name of ‘Carmen,’ a Pekinese spaniel like a little Djin, all prominent eyes rolling their blacks, and no nose between—­yes, Carmen looks as if she didn’t know what was coming next; she’s right—­it’s a pet-and-slap-again life!  Consider, too, the fittings of the tea-tray, rather soiled, though not quite tin, but I say unto you that no millionaire’s in all its glory ever had a liqueur bottle on it.’