Market Harford was a very old town, and the house was a very old house. There was a staircase which was admired by American visitors, and a front door for which they occasionally made bids. From where Mr. Mottisfont lay in bed he could see a narrow lane hedged in by high old houses with red tiles. Beyond, the ground fell sharply away, and there was a prospect of many red roofs. Farther still, beyond the river, he could see the great black chimneys of his foundry, and the smoke that came from them. It was the sight that he loved best in the world. David looked down into the High Street and watched one lamp after another spring into brightness. He could see a long ribbon of light go down to the river and then rise again. He turned back into the room when he was appealed to, and said:

“Why, you know best how you feel, sir.”

“Oh, no,” said old Mr. Mottisfont in a smooth, resigned voice. “Oh, no, David. In a private and unofficial sort of way, yes; but in a public and official sense, oh, dear, no. Edward wants to know when to order his mourning, and how to arrange his holiday so as not to clash with my funeral, so it is for my medical adviser to reply, ain't it, Edward?”

The colour ran to the roots of Edward Mottisfont's fair hair. He cast an appealing glance in David's direction, and did not speak.

“I don't think any of us will order our mourning till you 're dead, sir,” said David with a chuckle. He commiserated Edward, but, after all, Edward was a lucky dog-and to see one's successful rival at a disadvantage is not an altogether unpleasant experience. “You 'll outlive some of us young ones yet,” he added, but old Mr. Mottisfont was frowning.

“Seen any more of young Stevenson, Edward?” he said, with an abrupt change of manner.

Edward shook his head rather ruefully.

“No, sir, I have n't.”

“No, and you ain't likely to,” said old Mr. Mottisfont. “There, you 'd best be gone. I 've talked enough.”