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Peter Phipps and his nephew dined together on the last night of the year at a well-chosen table at Giro's restaurant in Monte Carlo. There were long-necked and gold-foiled bottles upon the table and a menu which had commanded the respect of the _maitre d'hotel_ whose province it was to supply their wants. Nevertheless, neither of the two men had the appearance of being entirely satisfied with life.
"Those figures from the Official Receiver," Phipps remarked, as he filled his glass with wine and passed the bottle across the table, "are scarcely what we had a right to expect, eh, Stanley?"