When he awoke next morning from a heavy sleep, Piers suffered the half-recollection of some reproachful dream.

His musty palate and dull brain reminded him of Alexander's whisky; matter, that, for self-reproach; but in the background was something more.

He had dreamt of his father, and seemed to have discharged in sleep a duty still in reality neglected; that, namely, of responding to the old man's offer of advice respecting the use he should make of his money.

Out of four hundred pounds, two hundred were already given away--for he had no serious expectation that his brothers would repay the so-called loans.
Plainly it behoved him to be frank on this subject.

Affectionate loyalty to his father had ever been a guiding principle in Piers Otway's life; he was uneasy under the sense that he had begun to slip towards neglectfulness, towards careless independence.
He would have written this morning, but, after all, it was better to wait until he had settled the doubt which made havoc of his days.