The High Heart. Basil King

his hands in his trousers pockets and his feet thrust out before him. The attitude was neither graceful nor respectful to the company.

      "It's no use talking, father," he declared, sulkily, "because I've said my last word."

      "Oh no, you haven't, for I haven't said my first."

      In the tone in which Hugh cried out there must have been something of the plea of a little boy before he is punished:

      "Please don't give me any orders, father, because I sha'n't be able to obey them."

      "Hugh, your expression 'sha'n't be able to obey' is not in the vocabulary with which I'm familiar."

      "But it's in the one with which I am."

      "Then you've probably learnt it from Ethel's little servant—I've forgotten the name—"

      Hugh spoke with spirit. "She's not a servant; and her name is Alexandra Adare. Please, dad, try to fix it in your memory. You'll find you'll have a lot of use for it."

      "Don't be impertinent."

      "I'm not impertinent. I'm stating a fact. I ask every one here to remember that name—"

      "We needn't bring any one else into this foolish business. It's between you and me. Even so, I wish to have no argument."

      "Nor I."

      "Then in that case we understand each other. You'll be with the Goldboroughs for the twelfth—"

      Hugh spoke very distinctly: "Father—I'm—not—going."

      In the silence that followed one could hear the ticking of the mantelpiece clock.

      "Then may I ask where you are going?"

      Hugh raised himself from his sprawling attitude, holding his bulky young figure erect. "I'm going to earn a living."

      Some one, perhaps old Mrs. Billing, laughed. The father continued to speak with great if dangerous courtesy.

      "Ah? Indeed! That's interesting. And may I ask at what?"

      "At what I can find."

      "That's more interesting still. Earning a living in New York is like the proverbial looking for the needle in the haystack. The needle is there, but it takes—"

      "Very good eyesight to detect it. All right, dad. I shall be on the job."

      "Good! And when do you propose to begin?"

      It had not been Hugh's intention to begin at any time in particular, but, thus challenged, he said, boldly, "To-morrow."

      "That's excellent. But why put it off so long? I should think you'd start out—to-night."

      Mrs. Billing's "Ha-a!" subdued and prolonged, was like that tense exclamation which the spectators utter at some exiting moment of a game. It took no sides, but it did justice to a sporting situation. As Hugh told me the story on the following day he confessed that more than any other occurrence it put the next move "up to him." According to Ethel Rossiter he lumbered heavily to his feet and crossed the room toward his father. He began to speak as he neared the architectural chimneypiece, merely throwing the words at J. Howard as he passed.

      "All right, father. Since you wish it—"

      "Oh no. My wishes are out of it. As you defy those I've expressed, there's no more to be said."

      Hugh paused in his walk, his hands in the pockets of his dinner-jacket, and eyed his father obliquely. "I don't defy your wishes, dad. I only claim the right, as a man of twenty-six, to live my own life. If you wouldn't make yourself God—"

      The handsome hand went up. "We'll not talk about that, if you please. I'd no intention of discussing the matter any longer. I merely thought that if I were in the situation in which you've placed yourself, I should be—getting busy. Still, if you want to stay the night—"

      "Oh, not in the least." Hugh was as nonchalant as he had the power to make himself. "Thanks awfully, father, all the same." He looked round on the circle where each of the chorus sat with an appropriate expression of horror—that is, with the exception of the old lady Billing, who, with her lorgnette still to her eyes, nodded approval of so much spirit. "Good night, every one," Hugh continued, coolly, and made his way toward the door.

      He had nearly reached it when Mildred cried out: "Hugh! Hughie! You're not going away like that!"

      He retraced his steps to the couch, where he stooped, pressed his sister's thin fingers, and kissed her. In doing so he was able to whisper:

      "Don't worry, Milly dear. Going to be all right. Shall be a man now. See you soon again." Having raised himself, he nodded once more. "Good night, every one."

      Mrs. Rossiter said that he was so much like a young fellow going to his execution that she couldn't respond by a word.

      Hugh then marched up to his father and held out his hand. "Good night, dad. We needn't have any ill-feeling even if we don't agree."

      But the Great Dispenser didn't see him. An imposing figure standing with his hands behind his back, he kept his fingers clasped. Looking through his son as if he was no more than air, he remarked to the company in general:

      "I don't think I've ever seen Daisy Burke appear better than she did to-night. She's usually so badly dressed." He turned with a little deferential stoop to where Mrs. Brokenshire—whom Ethel Rossiter described as a rigid, exquisite thing staring off into vacancy—sat on a small upright chair. "What do you think, darling?"

      Hugh could hear the family trying to rally to the hint that had thus been given them, and doing their best to discuss the merits and demerits of Daisy Burke, as he stood in the big, square hall outside, wondering where he should seek shelter.