"Figtree Court is not gay in the long vacation," said Robert,
reflectively: "but I think, upon the whole, it's better than this; at
any rate, it's near a tobacconist's," he added, puffing resignedly at an
execrable cigar procured from the landlord of the Sun Inn.

George Talboys, who had only consented to the Essex expedition in
passive submission to his friend, was by no means inclined to object to
their immediate return to London. "I shall be glad to get back, Bob," he
said, "for I want to take a run down to Southampton; I haven't seen the
little one for upward of a month."

He always spoke of his son as "the little one;" always spoke of him
mournfully rather than hopefully. He accounted for this by saying that
he had a fancy that the child would never learn to love him; and worse
even than this fancy, a dim presentiment that he would not live to see
his little Georgey reach manhood.

"I'm not a romantic man, Bob," he would say sometimes, "and I never read
a line of poetry in my life that was any more to me than so many words
and so much jingle; but a feeling has come over me, since my wife's
death, that I am like a man standing upon a long, low shore, with
hideous cliffs frowning down upon him from behind, and the rising tide
crawling slowly but surely about his feet. It seems to grow nearer and
nearer every day, that black, pitiless tide; not rushing upon me with a
great noise and a mighty impetus, but crawling, creeping, stealing,
gliding toward me, ready to close in above my head when I am least
prepared for the end."

Robert Audley stared at his friend in silent amazement; and, after a