"And then my brothers die--Polydor, who lived mostly
at Smyrna, and whose estate was withdrawn from the
business by his widow, and Augustin, who lived here in
London after 1870, and died--it is now six years ago.
He left a son, Robert, who is my nephew, and my partner.
He is now of an age--perhaps thirty years. He was a small
child when he came to London--he has become more English
than the English themselves. His activity and industry
are very great; he forms plans of such magnitude
and numbers that they would compel his grandfather
to turn in his coffin. I am in indifferent health.
I live much at Homburg and Marienbad and at Cairo.
Practically speaking, I have retired from business.
There remain branches of our house--in several places--but
the London house has become the centre of all things--and
Robert has become the London house. This I make plain
to your mind, do I, Mr. Thorpe?"

The other, with his chin sunk within the collar of his
white waistcoat, and scrutinizing the narrator with a
steadfast though impassive glance, made the faintest
possible nod of assent.

"I had great confidence in Robert, "the old man went on.
His eyes were dimming with tears, and his voice
quavered uncertainly. "His plans seemed wise, even if they
risked more than formerly. The conditions of business are
wholly altered since my youth--and it was best, I thought,
to make Robert free to act under these conditions,