The time, however, is hardly ripe
for that. What is it, Jones?"
"A note, sir."
The butler handed it in upon a silver salver. Haw broke the seal and
ran his eye over it.
"Tut! tut! It is from Lady Morsley, asking me to the Lord-Lieutenant's
ball. I cannot possibly accept. It is very kind of them, but I do wish
they would leave me alone. Very well, Jones. I shall write. Do you
know, Robert, I am often very unhappy."
He frequently called the young artist by his Christian name, especially
in his more confidential moments.
"I have sometimes feared that you were," said the other sympathetically.
"But how strange it seems, you who are yet young, healthy, with every
faculty for enjoyment, and a millionaire."
"Ah, Robert," cried Haw, leaning back in his chair, and sending up thick
blue wreaths from his pipe. "You have put your finger upon my trouble.
If I were a millionaire I might be happy, but, alas, I am no
millionaire!"
"Good heavens!" gasped Robert.
Cold seemed to shoot to his inmost soul as it flashed upon him that this
was a prelude to a confession of impending bankruptcy, and that all this
glorious life, all the excitement and the colour and change, were about
to vanish into thin air.
"No millionaire!" he stammered.
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