Challices should not have cause to feel ashamed of a mercenary descendant.
The dinner was excellent, the temperature of the burgundy perfect. The maître d'hôtel, himself, supervised the service, and when at half-past nine Beresford rose from the table, he was conscious of a feeling of artistic content. Yes, he would run into the Empire. It would bring back memories of the old Oxford days, and those illicit excursions to London.
He was not particularly interested in the performance; such things, as a rule, rather bored him. He waited to the end, even for the pictures. As he passed out and joined the crowd moving slowly westward, he found himself wondering what Aunt Caroline would say, what the Edward Seymours would say to each other and to Aunt Caroline. What would old Drew think?
He at least would be a little sorry, he
"All right, sir, I'll move on."
Beresford had almost fallen over a bundle of rags huddled upon a doorstep.
"Here, hold out your hand," he cried, struck with a sudden idea. Putting his hand in his pocket he drew out all the loose silver and copper he had and dropped it into the grimed and shaking hand that was extended. Then he passed on, conscious of a splutter of thanks behind him. He was not the only one up against things.
What would Lola think? Would she be sorry; would she? He gritted his teeth. Here had
