I opened the envelope, which was addressed in a bold, round hand that seemed to me typical of the writer, and read as follows: 

“My Dear Sir,—­I appreciate the motives which caused you to write to me and I thank you very heartily for your letter, which shows me that you are a man of discretion and strict honour.  As you surmise, the expedition on which my son has entered is not one that commends itself to me as prudent.  Of the differences between him and myself you are aware, for they came to a climax in your presence.  Indeed, I feel that I owe you an apology for having dragged you into an unpleasant family quarrel.  Your letter only reached me to-day having been forwarded to my place in the country from my office.  I should have at once come to town, but unfortunately I am laid up with an attack of gout which makes it impossible for me to stir.  Therefore, the only thing I can do is to write to my son hoping that the letter which I send by a special messenger will reach him in time and avail to alter his determination to undertake this journey.  Here I may add that although I have differed and do differ from him on various points, I still have a deep affection for my son and earnestly desire his welfare.  The prospect of any harm coming to him is one upon which I cannot bear to dwell.

“Now I am aware that any change of his plans at this eleventh hour would involve you in serious loss and inconvenience.  I beg to inform you formally, therefore, that in this event I will make good everything and will in addition write off the £2,000 which I understand he has invested in your joint venture.  It may be, however, that my son, who has in him a vein of my own obstinacy, will refuse to change his mind.  In that event, under a Higher Power I can only commend him to your care and beg that you will look after him as though he were your own child.  I can ask and you can do no more.  Tell him to write me as opportunity offers, as perhaps you will too; also that, although I hate the sight of them, I will look after the flowers which he has left at the house at Twickenham.—­

“Your obliged servant, Alexander Somers.”

This letter touched me much, and indeed made me feel very uncomfortable.  Without a word I handed it to my companion, who read it through carefully.

“Nice of him about the orchids,” he said.  “My dad has a good heart, although he lets his temper get the better of him, having had his own way all his life.”

“Well, what will you do?” I asked.

“Go on, of course.  I’ve put my hand to the plough and I am not going to turn back.  I should be a cur if I did, and what’s more, whatever he might say he’d think none the better of me.  So please don’t try to persuade me, it would be no good.”

For quite a while afterwards young Somers seemed to be comparatively depressed, a state of mind that in his case was rare indeed.  At last, he studied the wintry landscape through the carriage window and said nothing.  By degrees, however, he recovered, and when we reached Dartmouth was as cheerful as ever, a mood that I could not altogether share.