Doctor Ravenshaw shook his head. "I have a patient to visit before dark,"
he said, "a lady. I do not care to carry the smell of spirits into a
sick-room."

"But this is a special occasion, Ravenshaw," persisted the other. "We do
not restore a title every day."

"Austin!" The voice of Mrs. Pendleton sounded from the sofa in shocked
protest.

"What's the matter?" said Austin, pausing in the act of pouring some
whisky into a glass.

"It would be exceedingly improper to drink a toast at such a moment."

"What's the matter with the moment?"

"The day, then. Just when we have buried poor Alice." Mrs. Pendleton had
not seen her brother's wife for ten years before her death, but she had no
difficulty in bringing tears to her eyes at the recollection of her. She
dried her eyes with her handkerchief, and added in a different tone: "I
fancy Robert is coming."

A heavy step was heard descending the stairs. Austin drained his glass,
and Dr. Ravenshaw adjusted his spectacles as Robert Turold entered the
room.