If Sir Alexander had been angry before, now he became like a mad bull in a china shop.  He pranced round the room; he used language that should not pass the lips of any respectable merchant of bullion; in short, he did everything that a person in his position ought not to do.  When he was tired he rushed to a desk, tore a cheque from a book and filled it in for a sum of £2,300 to bearer, which cheque he blotted, crumpled up and literally threw at the head of his son.

“You worthless, idle young scoundrel,” he bellowed.  “I put you in this office here that you may learn respectable and orderly habits and in due course succeed to a very comfortable business.  What happens?  You don’t take a ha’porth of interest in bullion-broking, a subject of which I believe you to remain profoundly ignorant.  You don’t even spend your money, or rather my money, upon any gentleman-like vice, such as horse-racing, or cards, or even—­well, never mind.  No, you take to flowers, miserable, beastly flowers, things that a cow eats and clerks grow in back gardens.”

“An ancient and Arcadian taste.  Adam is supposed to have lived in a garden,” I ventured to interpolate.

“Perhaps you would ask your friend with the stubbly hair to remain quiet,” snorted Sir Alexander.  “I was about to add, although for the sake of my name I meet your debts, that I have had enough of this kind of thing.  I disinherit you, or will do if I live till 4 p.m. when the lawyer’s office shuts, for thank God! there are no entailed estates, and I dismiss you from the firm.  You can go and earn your living in any way you please, by orchid-hunting if you like.”  He paused, gasping for breath.

“Is that all, father?” asked Mr. Stephen, producing a cigar from his pocket.

“No, it isn’t, you cold-blooded young beggar.  That house you occupy at Twickenham is mine.  You will be good enough to clear out of it; I wish to take possession.”

“I suppose, father, I am entitled to a week’s notice like any other tenant,” said Mr. Stephen, lighting the cigar.  “In fact,” he added, “if you answer no, I think I shall ask you to apply for an ejection order.  You will understand that I have arrangements to make before taking a fresh start in life.”

“Oh! curse your cheek, you—­you—­cucumber!” raged the infuriated merchant prince.  Then an inspiration came to him.  “You think more of an ugly flower than of your father, do you?  Well, at least I’ll put an end to that,” and he made a dash at the plant on the table with the evident intention of destroying the same.

But the watching Woodden saw.  With a kind of lurch he interposed his big frame between Sir Alexander and the object of his wrath.

“Touch ‘O.  Paving’ and I knocks yer down,” he drawled out.

Sir Alexander looked at “O.  Paving,” then he looked at Woodden’s leg-of-mutton fist, and—­changed his mind.

“Curse ‘O.  Paving,’” he said, “and everyone who has to do with it,” and swung out of the room, banging the door behind him.