knew what they meant to talk about. He admitted that a landlord had
duties, but his generally demanded attention at an inconvenient time.

Osborn was fifty years of age. He had a ruddy skin and well-proportioned
figure, and was, physically, a rather fine example of the sporting
country gentleman. For all that, there were lines on his forehead and
wrinkles about his eyes; his mouth was loose and sensual, and something
about him hinted at indulgence. His manner, as a rule, was abrupt and
often overbearing.

The library was spacious, the furniture in good taste but getting shabby.
In fact, a certain look of age and shabbiness was typical of the house.
Although the windows were open, the room had a damp smell, and the rows
of books that Osborn never read were touched with mildew. Rain was
plentiful in the north-country dale, coal was dear, and Mrs. Osborn was
forced to study economy, partly because her husband would not.

By and by Osborn turned his glance from the window and fixed it on his
son, who stood waiting across the big oak table. Gerald was a handsome
lad, like his father, but marked by a certain refinement and a hint of
delicacy. Although he felt anxious, his pose was free and graceful and
his look undisturbed. Osborn threw the bills on the table.

"This kind of thing must stop," he said. "I haven't grumbled much,
perhaps not as much as I ought, about your extravagance, but only a fool
imagines he can spend more than he has got."

"We have had such fools in our family," the boy remarked, and stopped
when he saw Osborn's color rise.