The Ivory Gate, a new edition. Walter Besant

seem an unusual course; but I am no judge of what is becoming to a young lady.'

      'Well – she needn't go on like a housemaid,' said her sister. 'Of course the position of things at home is strained, and I don't know what may happen at any moment. Elsie says that she shall be twenty-one next week, and that she means to act on her own judgment. She even talks of setting up a studio somewhere and painting portraits for money. That is a pleasant thing for me to contemplate. My own sister earning her own living by painting!'

      'How do you think I can interfere in the matter? Lovers' quarrels or lovers' difficulties are not made or settled in this room.'

      'Mr. Dering, there is no one in the world of whom she is afraid, except yourself. There is no one of whose opinion she thinks so much. Will you see her? Will you talk with her? Will you admonish her?'

      'Why, Hilda, it so happens that I have already invited her to call upon me on her birthday, when she ceases to be my ward. I will talk to her if you please. Perhaps you may be satisfied with the result of my conversation.'

      'I shall – I am sure I shall.'

      'Let me understand. You desire that your sister shall marry a man who, if he is not already rich, should be at least on the high road to wealth. You cannot force her to accept even the richest young man in London unless she likes him, can you?'

      'No. Certainly not. And we can hardly expect her to marry, as I did myself, a man whose wealth is already established. Unless she would take Algy Roding.'

      'Very good. But he must have a certain income, so as to ensure the means of an establishment conducted at a certain level.'

      'Yes. She need not live in Palace Gardens, but she ought to be able to live – say in Pembridge Square.'

      'Quite so. I suppose, with an income of fifteen hundred or so to begin with. If I make her understand so much, you will be satisfied?'

      'Perfectly. – My dear Mr. Dering, I really believe you have got the very young man up your sleeve. But how will you persuade her to give up the present intruder?'

      'I promise nothing, Hilda – I promise nothing. I will do my best, however.'

      Hilda rose and swept back her dress.

      'I feel an immense sense of relief,' she said. 'The dear child's happiness is all I desire. Perhaps if you were to dismiss the young man immediately, with ignominy, and were to refuse him a written character on the ground of trying to win the affections of a girl infinitely above him in station, it might produce a good effect on Elsie – showing what you think of it – as well as an excellent lesson for himself and his friends. There is no romance about a cast-off clerk. Will you think of this, Mr. Dering? The mere threat of such a thing might make him ready to give her up; and it might make her inclined for his own sake to send him about his business.'

      'I will think of it, Hilda. – By the way, will you and my brother dine with me on Monday, unless you are engaged? We can talk over this little affair then at leisure.'

      'With pleasure. We are only engaged for the evening. Now I won't keep you any longer. – Good-bye.'

      She walked away, smiling graciously on the clerks in the outer office, and descended the stairs to the carriage, which waited below.

      Mr. Dering returned to his papers. He was not changed in the eight years since the stormy interview with this young lady's brother: his small whiskers were a little whiter: his iron-gray hair was unchanged; his lips were as firm and his nostrils as sharp, his eyes as keen as then.

      The room looked out pleasantly upon the garden of New Square, where the sunshine lay warm upon the trees with their early summer leaves. Sunshine or rain, all the year round, the solicitor sat in his high-backed chair before his great table. He sat there this morning working steadily until he had got through what he was about. Then he looked at his watch. It was past two o'clock. He touched a bell on the table, and his old clerk came in.

      Though he was the same age as his master, Checkley looked a great deal older. He was bald, save for a small white patch over each ear; he was bent, and his hands trembled. His expression was sharp, foxy, and suspicious. He stood in the unmistakable attitude of a servant, hands hanging in readiness, head a little bent.

      'The clerks are all gone, I suppose?' said Mr. Dering.

      'All gone. All they think about when they come in the morning is how soon they will get away. As for any pride in their work, they haven't got it.'

      'Let them go. – Checkley, I have wanted to speak to you for some time.'

      'Anything the matter?' The old clerk spoke with the familiarity of long service which permits the expression of opinions.

      'The time has come, Checkley, when we must make a change.'

      'A change? Why – I do my work as well as ever I did – better than any of the younger men. A change?'

      'The change will not affect you.'

      'It must be for you then. Surely you're never going to retire!'

      'No – I mean to hold on as long as I can. That will only be for a year or two at most. I am seventy-five, Checkley.'

      'What of that? So am I. You don't find me grumbling about my work, do you? Besides, you eat hearty. Your health is good.'

      'Yes, my health is good. But I am troubled of late, Checkley – I am troubled about my memory.'

      'So is many a younger man,' returned the clerk stoutly.

      'Sometimes I cannot remember in the morning what I was doing the evening before.'

      'That's nothing. Nothing at all.'

      'Yesterday, I looked at my watch, and found that I had been unconscious for three hours.'

      'You were asleep. I came in and saw you sound asleep.' It was not true, but the clerk's intentions were good.

      'To go asleep in the morning argues a certain decay of strength. Yet I believe that I get through the work as well as ever. The clients do not drop off, Checkley. There are no signs of mistrust – eh? No suspicion of failing powers?'

      'They think more of you than ever.'

      'I believe they do, Checkley.'

      'Everybody says you are the top of the profession.'

      'I believe I am, Checkley – I believe I am. Certainly, I am the oldest. Nevertheless, seventy-five is a great age to be continuing work. Things can't last much longer.'

      'Some men go on to eighty, and even ninety.'

      'A few – a few only.' The lawyer sighed. 'One may hope, but must not build upon the chance of such merciful prolongation. The older I grow, Checkley, the more I enjoy life, especially the only thing that has ever made life happy for me – this work. I cling to it' – he spread his hands over the papers – 'I cling to it. I cannot bear to think of leaving it.'

      'That – and your savings,' echoed the clerk.

      'It seems as if I should be content to go on for a hundred years more at the work of which I am never tired. And I must leave it before long – in a year – two years – who knows? Life is miserably short – one has no time for half the things one would like to do. Well' – he heaved a deep sigh – 'let us work while we can. However, it is better to climb down than to be pulled down or shot down. I am going to make preparations, Checkley, for the end.'

      'What preparations? You're not going to send for a minister, are you?'

      'No. Not that kind of preparation. Nor for the doctor either. Nor for a lawyer to make my will. All those things are duly attended to. I have resolved, Checkley, upon taking a partner.'

      'You? Take a partner? You? At your time of life?'

      'I am going to take a partner. And you are the first person who has been told of my intention. Keep it a secret for the moment.'

      'Take a partner? Divide your beautiful income by two?'

      'Yes, Checkley. I am going to give a share in that beautiful income to a young man.'

      'What can a partner do for you that