Dr. Brewster threw back his head and laughed.
"But, I say, doctor," continued the other, "you ought to see him, such a pitiful-looking, white-haired, old chap, with those kids on his hands for years. I say, he's been handicapped, you know. And—Bah Jove! doctor, what did you send me there for?"
"To see how you liked Hitchen's Court."
The young man passed over the reply. "I say it's a beastly shame," he went on. "That old chap is a better fellow than I am any day, I say, there's something wrong."
"Desperately so, I grant you—with us."
The young man looked up quickly. "It's beastly," he repeated.
"Sig, you're a huge joke," laughed the doctor. "Go 'long with you and your paupers. By the way, what about the children?"
The young man smiled broadly. "They are a pair. I believe that poor little wretch of a red-headed snipe supports the family. Ah, doctor, I say we're nowhere with my Lord William. Such airs; bluffed me off at first."
He sat on the arm of the chair, swinging one foot thoughtfully. Dr. Brewster looked at him. Young, good-looking, rich; what the public called "a howling swell;" a dilettante in his profession, yet possessing ability, if but the proper motive stirred his impulses. He had been wont to maintain that half the world's poor were whining impostors, and the other half incorrigible reprobates.