"Something of a problem, eh?" he said, after a pause.

Jake's eyes came to him and remained upon him with steady insistence.

"He's not going to turn into a fancy-dress loafer, my lord," he said at length in his soft, deliberate voice. "I'll see to that anyway."

"Don't be nasty, Jake!" protested Saltash with a smile. "I'm not proposing to adopt him. But I can give him employment, if that's what he's wanting. What do you want to make of him?"

Jake's steady look remained upon him. "Just an honest man, I reckon," he said.

"Ah! Quite so!" Open mockery gleamed back at him from Saltash's half-closed eyes. "All contaminating influences to be kept away. Is that it?"

Jake was silent.

Saltash sent a cloud of smoke upwards before he spoke again. Then: "I agree with you, Jake," he said. "We mustn't spoil the boy. He shan't learn any naughty ways from me. Come! That's a promise. And I'm not such a blackguard as I used to be."

"Sure?" said Jake.

Again Saltash's smile flashed across at him. "Quite sure, my worthy philosopher," he made light reply. "I don't set up for a model of virtue of course, but at least--now-a-days--I never take what I can't pay for."

"That so?" said Jake. He considered the matter for a few moments, then slowly took the cigar from between his lips and spoke. "It's certainly true; Bunny is a problem. He's not strong; and though he's got grit, he hasn't got what I call punching power. He's been ordered an out-door life, and he wants to join me in running the stud. I could do with him of course, but I've a strong feeling against it, anyway till he's older.

It's not the right atmosphere for him, and it doesn't bring him in contact with the right people. He ought to be in the Army, but he wasn't strong enough. It's a big grievance with him for there's nothing radically wrong; just weak tendencies that he may outgrow if he leads a healthy life and doesn't strain himself. We're just marking time at present, so if you have anything to suggest--well, I've no doubt he'll be something more than grateful."

"And you?" questioned Saltash, with a grimace at the ceiling.

"I too," said Jake, "if it's for the boy's good."

"You needn't hold a pistol at my head," protested Saltash. "I shan't put him in the way of any short cuts to the devil. All I have to offer him is the post of bailiff at Burchester Castle, as old Bishop has got beyond his job. I can't turn the old beggar out, but I want a young man to take the burden off his shoulders. Do you think that sort of thing would be beneath Bunny's dignity, or likely to upset his morals?"

"He'd probably jump at the chance," said Jake.

"Which is more than his worthy brother-in-law does on his behalf,"

grinned Saltash.

"No," Jake's steady eyes met the gibe unfaltering. "I know it's a chance that doesn't come every day, and I know you mean well by him. I shan't put any hindrance in the way."

"Then it's done," said Saltash. "Bunny's fate is sealed."

"I hope not." Jake still gravely watched him, but not as if he sought for anything in the baffling, mobile countenance. "What do you want him for anyway?"

Saltash flicked the ash from his cigar. "Perhaps I'm turning philanthropist, Jake. Do you know the symptoms? I've been anxious about myself several times lately."

"Come on rather suddenly, hasn't it?" suggested Jake.

Saltash nodded. "It's old age, I fancy. Anyhow I've a notion for doing Bunny a good turn. The boy can have play as well as work. He can join the polo-club at Fairharbour. I'll introduce him."

"And where will he live?" asked Jake.

"With the old Bishops of course. He'll be safe enough with them and within reach of you and Maud at the same time. It's time you eased the leading string a bit, you know. He'll start kicking if you don't."

"I don't think so," said Jake. "He goes his own way already quite as much as is good for him. I don't need to hold him in very tight either. He's not the bolting sort."

"You mean you've trained him well," laughed Saltash. "I congratulate you.

You've a genius for that sort of thing, Jake. The boy will probably answer to your lightest touch and never even know he does it."

"What was the other thing you wanted to say to me?" said Jake.

"Oh that!" Saltash's eyes fell suddenly to his empty wine gla.s.s. He fingered the stem of it for a few seconds with a curiously irresolute air. "Do you know I think I'll put it to Maud first!" he said at length, with a smile that was faintly shamefaced.

"It'll come to the same thing," said Jake.

Saltash's eyes flashed upwards. He met Jake's look almost with defiance.

"Doubtless you are master in your own house, Jake," he said. "Far be it from me to question it."

"I didn't mean that," said Jake. "What I meant was," the red-brown eyes began to smile, "that Maud and I are friends--and we generally want the same thing."

Saltash nodded. "Not so bad after eight years," he said.

"No. It's pretty great," said Jake. "You'd think we were an ill-matched pair, wouldn't you? But we've learnt to plough as straight a furrow as anyone."

"No, I don't think you ill-matched," said Saltash unexpectedly. "You've always been about the same height and breadth, my friend. I saw that a long time ago. The luckiest day that ever dawned for Maud was the one on which you cut me out."

"Think so?" said Jake. "Well, it wasn't a very lucky one for you, I'm afraid."

"I got over it," said Saltash lightly. "I'm too great a rotter, you know, Jake, to take things much to heart. I've loved heaps of women since--even some good ones. But they never take me seriously; so I presume I shall continue to rot."

"Thought you'd turned sober," suggested Jake.

Again Saltash's look dwelt upon the ruby drain in his wine-gla.s.s. For a moment the restlessness of his face deepened to something very nearly approaching melancholy.

"I'm tired, Jake," he said abruptly. "I've run through the whole gamut of amus.e.m.e.nts, and I'm bored to the soul. I want to do a good turn to somebody--just for a change--to see what it feels like. Perhaps--who knows--it may take the taste of rottenness out of my mouth. You fellows who lead a decent, orderly life don't know what it is when the wine turns to vinegar and all the sweets of life to gall."

"Sounds pretty d.a.m.nable," said Jake.

Saltash grimaced like a weary monkey. "It's dust and ashes, my good Jake.

But we won't discuss it. Let's come to business! You know Larpent--my captain--quite one of the best?"

Jake nodded. "I've met him--yes."

Saltash flung himself back in his chair smoking rapidly. "He was damaged when the yacht went down. He's in a nursing home in town, getting better.

He's got a daughter--a girl called Antoinette. She's been at school in France, and Larpent was bringing her home in the yacht when we went down.

She's nineteen--a jolly little thing--half French. Larpent doesn't know what to do with her. He has no people. She--quite properly--wants to earn her own living. But she's too young yet to fight the world.

Larpent's a rover, he'll never settle on land. She's never had any home life, poor kid. And she wants it. You'll say it's like my d.a.m.ned cheek to come to you, but on my life you and Maud are the only people I can think of. There's my old friend Lady Jo--Mrs. Green as she prefers to be called--but she isn't very strong just now. I can't bother her. Besides she hasn't got a home like yours. She's up in town."

The jerky utterance came to an end. Saltash turned his head towards Jake, watching him half furtively through the smoke.

There followed a silence of some duration. Jake's brows were slightly drawn. He spoke at last, slowly and softly as his manner was. "Are you suggesting that--Captain Larpent's daughter--should come to us?"

"She'd be useful enough," said Saltash in his quick, vehement way. "She'd help Maud with the children. There's nothing she wouldn't do. It would be a kindness on your part, and you wouldn't regret it. She's a taking little thing. I'd like you to have her for a month, and if you don't want to keep her after that--well--shunt her back on to Larpent. He'll be well by that time. If he isn't--I'll look after her till he is."