“These young wimming,” he mumbled⁠—pronouncing the word more quaintly than Wolf had ever heard Mr. Torp pronounce it⁠—“ like red ties.” And moving to the mirror above the hall-table, he proceeded to regard the improved adornment with whimsical complacency.

They had not been seated many minutes beside the drawing-room fire when Wolf took the bull by the horns.

“Look here, Jason,” he began. “Why don’t you let me send a selection of your poems up to London, so that we can see what the critics think of them?”

There was an ominous silence. Darnley’s hand went up to his beard; while his eyes fixed themselves frowningly upon the coal-scuttle.

Slowly Jason spoke, putting an abysmal malice into his words.