Mr. Trescott's impression was that Alfred
had been drinking. Absolute intoxication was
very unfrequent with him. Not because he was
temperate, but because he seemed unassailable
by the vulgar physical retribution that usually
follows excess. He would walk away, cool and
wary, from orgies that left older men prostrate,
or flushed and maddened with strong liquor.
Still there were symptoms which his father well
knew and recognised, that generally betrayed
when Alfred had been drinking deeply—the
white face, the glaring eye, the furious temper,
tiger-like in its treacherous suddenness.

"I only wanted to say one word to you about
Corda, Alf."

"What about Corda?"

"I told you that Bensa had offered to take
her as his articled pupil, without a premium;
and to pay himself out of her earnings if he
makes a singer of her."

"You did tell me; and I told you what I
thought about it. I should say no at once. We
don't want Mr. Carlo Bensa's kind assistance.
Skulking little fox!"

"But Corda, Alf, Corda! This offer of
Bensa's holds out a prospect for her that is not
likely to recur. The child is fond, too, of his
wife and all of 'em——"

"The child's a deuced sight too fond of
whining and whimpering to strangers, and
carrying tales. I have told you over and over
again that I'll look after Corda; but I'll do it
in my own way, and at my own time, and I
won't be dictated to by anybody."

"Well, Alf," said Mr. Trescott, looking up
defiantly while his lame side twitched nervously,
"I don't see that much good has come, or is
likely to come, to her from your brotherly love
and protection. We won't trouble you. I am
Corda' s father, and have a right to do as I like.
And the long and the short of it is, that I have
accepted Bensa's offer. I merely wished to tell
you."

Alfred rapped out a fierce oath. " You have
accepted, have you?" said he, glaring at his
father. "What the devil have you been wasting
my time for in jawing about it, then? It
will be better for me, no doubt. I wash my
hands of her. Whether you haven't made a little
mistake in your calculations, time will show."

Mr. Trescott shrugged his shoulders. "Here
is a note for you," he said, "that I got at the
treasury this morning when I went for my
money and yours. They gave me your week's
salary, but I expect I know pretty well what
the note is about."

Alfred tore the letter open, and, having read
it, tossed it contemptuously across to his
father. It was a dismissal from his situation in
the orchestra of the Dublin theatre, couched in
a few severe words, referring to his constant
neglect of his duties there.

"It's a pity," sighed the father. "You
might as well have had the money up to the
end of the season. But I knew this would
come. I was sure of it. Barker has been very
waxy about you for this long time past."

Alfred audibly consigned Mr. Barker and all
his company to the uttermost depths of
destruction. "Did the fool think his twopence-
halfpenny a week could keep an artist like me
in his band? Did he suppose I was going to
sit fiddling to his trash of raw-head and bloody-
bone melodramas night after night? Ecod, its
amusing!"

But the laugh with which Mr. Alfred Trescott
concluded and emphasised his speech was
by no means amusing. It so little amused
Corda, who entered the room in the midst of it,
that she stood trembling and astonished in the
doorway, with her eyes fixed on her brother.

Her father called the child to him. "You
look frightened, little one," said he, soothingly.
But his countenance, too, was disturbed, and
his hand shook as it stroked her hair.

"Oh, that's the latest thing, is it?"
muttered Alfred, glancing at them with a frown.
"She's frightened of me, is she? Go on.
You're improving her education at a pretty
rate, and she's an apt scholar in hypocrisy and
humbug."

Corda broke from her father, who made a
half-concealed effort to detain her, and, running
to Alfred, took his hand and kissed it. She
could not reach to his face, for he stood stiffly
at his full height.

"Dear Alf," she said, "I am not afraid of
you, and no one can make me so; no one tries
to do so, indeed. I do love you, Alf; you know
I love you!"

It may have been the mere soothing to his
self-love, sorely stung as it had been that day,
or perhaps—God knows—some throb of natural
affection not quite deadened in his perverted
heart, that made him stoop and kiss her. The
child threw her arms around his neck and
pressed him to her breast with all her feeble
power. "There's my own Alf," she said, in her
quaint grave way, though her lips quivered and
the tears were shining in her eyes. "You will
be good, won't you, Alf dear?"

"Look here, pussy-cat," said her brother,
suddenly. " I want to speak to you."

He seated himself and drew her to his side
with one arm about her waist, and his other
hand on her forehead, so that he could read her
upturned face at his ease. "I think you are
fond of me." He checked her eager answer,
and went on. "Now, I am going to see
whether it's all talk or whether there's anything
real in it; do you understand? I am going to
London. You know that. Very well. There
has been some talk of apprenticing you to Mr.
Bensa. Don't interrupt me, father! You
shall have your say afterwards. Now, Corda, I
don't like that scheme at all. I'm not fond of
the Bensas, and I know very well that there's
no love lost between us. If you stay here with
them I shall wash my hands of you, get rid of
you, trouble myself no more about you. You
know what I mean. No need to cry. Listen.
If, instead of that, you go to town with me and
the governor, I will look after you. I have
high friends, rich friends, who can help me, and