“Aequam memento rebus in arduis Servare mentem.”

And, raising his glass, he sipped slowly, spilling a drop or two, shutting his eyes.

The faint silvery squealing of the holy woman in the room above, the scent of hyacinths, the drowse of the fire, on which a cedar log had just been laid, the feeling of the port soaking down into the crannies of his being, made up a momentary Paradise.  Then the music stopped; and no sound rose but the tiny groans of the log trying to resist the fire.  Dreamily he thought:  ’Life wears you out—­wears you out.  Logs on a fire!’ And he filled his glass again.  That fellow had been careless; there were dregs at the bottom of the decanter and he had got down to them!  Then, as the last drop from his tilted glass trickled into the white hairs on his chin, he heard the coffee tray put down, and taking his cigar he put it to his ear, rolling it in his thick fingers.  In prime condition!  And drawing a first whiff, he said: 

“Open that bottle of the old brandy in the sideboard.”

“Brandy, sir?  I really daren’t, sir.”

“Are you my servant or not?”

“Yes, sir, but—–­”

A minute of silence, then the man went hastily to the sideboard, took out the bottle, and drew the cork.  The tide of crimson in the old man’s face had frightened him.

“Leave it there.”

The unfortunate valet placed the bottle on the little table.  ’I’ll have to tell her,’ he thought; ’but if I take away the port decanter and the glass, it won’t look so bad.’  And, carrying them, he left the room.

Slowly the old man drank his coffee, and the liqueur of brandy.  The whole gamut!  And watching his cigar-smoke wreathing blue in the orange glow, he smiled.  The last night to call his soul his own, the last night of his independence.  Send in his resignations to-morrow—­not wait to be kicked off!  Not give that fellow a chance!

A voice which seemed to come from far off, said: 

“Father!  You’re drinking brandy!  How can you—­you know it’s simple poison to you!” A figure in white, scarcely actual, loomed up close.  He took the bottle to fill up his liqueur glass, in defiance; but a hand in a long white glove, with another dangling from its wrist, pulled it away, shook it at him, and replaced it in the sideboard.  And, just as when Mr. Ventnor stood there accusing him, a swelling and churning in his throat prevented him from speech; his lips moved, but only a little froth came forth.

His daughter had approached again.  She stood quite close, in white satin, thin-faced, sallow, with eyebrows raised, and her dark hair frizzed—­yes! frizzed—­the holy woman!  With all his might he tried to say:  ‘So you bully me, do you—­you bully me to-night!’ but only the word “so” and a sort of whispering came forth.  He heard her speaking.  “It’s no good your getting angry, Father.  After champagne—­it’s wicked!” Then her form receded in a sort of