calm, prosaic waters of this every-day nineteenth-century life,
and embark upon the phosphorescent sea of our sensational
novelists--psychological, so-called. It is rather soon for the
cabinet to break, however. It suggests an anti-climax, which would be
inartistic. But such material was never intended to be thrown away by
a hero of romance."

He kicked about among the fragments of the ruined cabinet, but was
rewarded by no hollow ring. It was a most undutifully matter-of-fact
and prosaic piece of furniture in its interior, however much it may
have pleased the æsthetic sense outwardly. He gave it up after a time,
and finished dressing. "Nothing in that but firewood," he announced to
Jones, who had been watching his researches with some surprise. "Pile
it up in a corner and leave it there until I have made my peace with
Sir Iltyd."

He gave his necktie a final touch, then went down to the drawing-room,
where he found the candles lit and Sir Iltyd standing on the hearth-rug
beside his daughter. The old gentleman came forward at once and
greeted him with stately, old-fashioned courtesy, his stern, somewhat
sad features relaxing at once under Dartmouth's rare charm of manner.
He was a fine-looking man, tall and slim like his daughter, but very
fair. His head, well developed, but by no means massive, and scantily
covered with gray hair, was carried with the pride which was the bone
and fibre of his nature. Pride, in fact, albeit a gentle, chastened
sort of pride, was written all over him, from the haughty curve of his
eyebrow to the conscious wave of his small, delicate hand--pride, and
love for his daughter, for he followed her every movement with the
adoring eyes of a man for the one solace of a sad and lonely old age.