“May I venture to hope that, as yet, you have had no occasion to seek consolation in the teachings of philosophy?”
“I won four thousand over the last St. Leger.”
“For the present, then, the Stoics are at a discount.—Kester,” said Lionel, abruptly breaking off the subject, “you won’t object to come and see me at Park Newton?”
Kester was leaning back in his easy chair, watching the smoke-wreaths as they curled idly upwards from his cigar. His thick black eyebrows came together in a deep, meditative frown as he heard Lionel’s question. For a minute or two he did not answer.
“Frankly, no. I’ll come and see you,” he said at last. “Why shouldn’t I? It will pain me at first to go back to the old place as guest, where once I thought that I should be master. But, thank Heaven, I’m not one of the most impressionable of men, and the feeling will soon wear off. Yes, Lionel, I’ll come and see you.”
Lionel was pleased that he had succeeded so far. “Perhaps, after a time,” he thought, “I may be able to persuade him to accept the three thousand a year.”
“You will keep up the old place in proper style, I suppose?” said Kester presently.
“I shall live very quietly—at least for some time to come,” said Lionel.
“Which means, I suppose, that you will see very little company, and not rest satisfied unless you can save two-thirds of your income. That you will breakfast and dine in that ugly little parlour which overlooks the fishpond, and snore by night inside the huge four-poster in the Griffin-room.”
Lionel laughed his careless, good-hearted laugh. “To one count of your indictment I can plead guilty,” he said. “I certainly have both breakfasted and dined in the parlour overlooking the fishpond. But, on the other hand, I have certainly never slept in the Griffin, which has been locked up ever since Uncle Arthur’s death.”