rich man and could afford to buy horses, was likely to be more
submissive than ever.

He went down to Tretton alone early in September, and when he reached
the house he found that the two young men were out shooting. He asked
for his own room, but was instead immediately taken to the old squire,
whom he found lying on a couch in a small dressing-room, while his
sister, who had been reading to him, was by his side. After the usual
greetings Harry made some awkward apology as to his intrusion at the
sick man's bedside. "Why, I ordered them to bring you in here," said the
squire; "you can't very well call that intrusion. I have no idea of
being shut up from the world before they nail me down in my coffin."

"That will be a long time first, we all hope," said his sister.

"Bother! you hope it, but I don't know that any one else does;--I don't
for one. And if I did, what's the good of hoping? I have a couple of
diseases, either of which is enough to kill a horse." Then he mentioned
his special maladies in a manner which made Harry shrink. "What are they
talking about in London just at present?" he asked.

"Just the old set of subjects," said Harry.

"I suppose they have got tired of me and my iniquities?" Harry could
only smile and shake his head. "There has been such a complication of
romances that one expects the story to run a little more than the
ordinary nine days."

"Men still do talk about Mountjoy."