Estrangement from one's sons is never easy, especially when there is a distinguished family dynasty, never mind fabulous riches, at stake. Neither, one assumes, is the decision to disinherit them.

For Eric Hotung, however, there has been no agonizing. His decision is final: two of his sons, he insists, will never benefit from his millions.

"They took a gamble,'' he says. "I would have left them a good inheritance, and they gambled on getting it sooner. What they were saying to me when they took me to court to get my fortune was, 'Father, you are not dying fast enough for us.'''

Hotung's rotund face flushes a florid red. His right hand, tapping the arm of his chair in time with his words, reaches for another Kent cigarette. Behind a plume of smoke, his watery blue eyes narrow. "No, it doesn't sadden me to disinherit them,'' he says. "Why should it? They must now make their own way. They broke their mother's heart with their behavior, their grasping greed. Especially Sean, her favorite son. There will be no reconciliation. Last week Sean telephoned. We refused to take the call.'' Hotung shrugs, waving his hand dismissively. "I am through with them. I will leave my billions to charity.''

It sounds harsh. Yet Eric Hotung, 79, CBE, a Hong Kong resident who holds British nationality, is neither miserly nor vindictive. On the contrary. He may have the ear of presidents and princes, he may be the owner of the world's second most expensive house, he may think nothing of spending a quarter of a million dollars on a ring for his wife - but it is neither his wealth, estimated at HK$1 billion, nor the expensive tastes for which Hotung is famed. Instead, it is as a philanthropist and an international diplomat - and in those arenas, he has been unstintingly generous.

It is how he came to be dining with the Prince of Wales and Camilla earlier this month. "Wholesome, very charming,'' Hotung says. "He is a gentleman with much compassion.''

And years ago, when Hotung dined with Bill Clinton, White House aides prepared notes on him for Clinton that read, ``Fabulously wealthy, but a bit off-the-wall.''

Hotung's honors fill a foolscap sheet. They range from his donation of US$2 million (HK$15.6 million) in aid to the victims of last year's tsunami, to his heroic efforts in 2000 when he bought a boat to sail 12,800 refugees from West Timor to safety in East Timor.

Similarly, he has been lavish with his family. His eight children were world travelers from birth, as the family flitted between its six homes across the globe. Yet where two of his sons, Sean and Anthony, are concerned, the family coffers are now firmly closed. ``They did not fight fair,'' Hotung says. ``They raked up things best kept

private.''

The source of his sons' ire has been two secret trusts Hotung set up in 1979, bequeathing them shares worth HK$100 million in two of his companies, to be paid out on his death. In 2002, Sean and Anthony went to court to find out more about the secret trusts from Winnie Ho, their father's cousin and a trustee.

The senior Hotung's response was to revoke the trusts last year, but the sons successfully challenged that decision in Hong Kong's High Court.

``The trust was only two companies,'' Hotung says. ``A fraction of what they would have got eventually, had they not played dirty.''

It was during the court case that his sons revealed the existence of their illegitimate half-brother - a child born of an affair decades ago between the adolescent Hotung and his glamorous older cousin, Winnie.

``It was right that the boy should be recognised,'' Hotung says. `` I think a man should step up to what he has done. He is another of my sons, a delight to me.

``But [Sean and Anthony] broke their mother's heart by telling of it in a court. Yes, it was good it came out. But not the manner in which it did.''

Hotung will speak no more of the rift, save to admit that it serves as a reminder that history has a habit of repeating itself. Father-and-son estrangements are all too familiar in his family - along with spectacular love affairs and bitter betrayals.

``That's true, father-son rifts are not unusual in my family, but my father never sued my grandfather. Although,'' he adds, ``my grandfather was a buccaneer, and genes will out, I suppose.''

Hotung stirs his coffee - served by So, his Chinese batman, who silently pads through his master's suite in London's Savoy Hotel - then settles back in his armchair. He wants to relate how his family fortunes switched from stark poverty to fabled wealth over four generations.

Despite being troubled by sciatica and smarting eyes, which So swabs with lotion every hour, Hotung remains a born raconteur. He unbuttons his beige cashmere waistcoat, loosens his beige silk tie and takes off his black fedora. The wispy white hair underneath gives him a scholarly air. Around his well-padded waist sits a snug Hermes belt. On his finger is an enormous jade ring, a HK$250,000 present for his wife - when she declared it grotesque, he took to wearing it instead.

But before the history lesson, there is a phone call to take. ``From home,'' he indicates. But which one - Washington, New York, Hawaii, Shanghai or Japan? ``Washington,'' he replies, replacing the receiver. ``It was Ted Kennedy's old home.'' One of the more expensive ones, I venture? ``Six million dollars but I've just turned down 12 million for it,'' he says.

And the others, how much are they worth? ``No idea. All I know is that I have no mortgages. But the Washington house, it had a ghost when I bought it from Ted, you know. I had a Catholic priest exorcise it. No good. Then I brought in this 400-pound Russian woman psychic. She shifted it. That and a bit of feng shui. No more trouble.''

With a ``Where was I?'' Hotung returns to the family origins. Nearly 160 years ago, an English trader called Walter Bosman arrived barefoot and penniless in Hong Kong on board a clipper. Bosman married a Chinese girl and had seven children. Their eldest, Robert, won a place at Jardine Matheson, the trading house behind the West's push into Chinese opium markets. He married a director's daughter, established a property empire that spanned China, met Winston Churchill, entertained George Bernard Shaw and was knighted by Queen Victoria. Sir Robert's eldest son, Edward - Hotung's father - inherited the family wealth. ``A strict man, a financially astute man,'' Hotung says of Edward.

Memories from childhood remain vivid. Such as the night, during World War II, when a 15-year-old Eric was sent by his father to rescue what he could from the family mansion, which was under mortar attack.

``He told me to bring the two calf suitcases from under the bed. He said they were full of money. And to bring the umbrella he had bought in London 25 years before, and his suede jacket.''

The young Hotung braved a mortar attack and a beating from looters to retrieve the possessions. ``When I got home, father opened the suitcase and gave me a long, hard look over his glasses,'' he recalls. ``He was suspicious that I had stolen some. Father had had the foresight to change the money into small denominations. There was US$50,000 in there. Then he yelled at me for losing the umbrella. He only calmed down when I showed him the bullet holes in the jacket, and he realized I had nearly been killed.''

Hotung's upbringing was unusual. His father had infuriated Sir Robert by marrying an Irish beauty, Mordia O'Shea. Father and son became estranged and were reconciled only many years later.

``My mother was an embarrassment to my grandfather - he wanted a Chinese dynasty. He offered her thousands to leave my father, but she wouldn't. She was never allowed into my grandfather's house.''

Hotung, raised a Catholic by his mother, also married an Irish-American beauty. ``My wife,'' he says, slipping from his wallet a photograph of an achingly beautiful, auburn-haired woman pictured on her wedding day.

Right on cue, the telephone rings: it is his wife. He speaks in Chinese, saying only ``darling'' in English. When he hangs up, he lights another Kent (promising to say a Hail Mary for each subsequent cigarette) and tells how he wooed her. It was before he inherited his fortune, when he lived, he says, a ``sybaritic life.'' It took him eight years to convince Patricia Anne to marry him. In that time, he and cousin Winnie had their affair. ``She, too, was a beauty,'' he says. His blue eyes close: he is lost, momentarily, in a private reverie.

Hotung told his wife of the affair after they married, but not of the son Winnie bore. ``I confessed that, shortly afterwards, on board a train. My wife - my God, such fury. She said she was getting off at the next stop and that the marriage was over. How did I convince her to forgive me? Oh, I bought her an ice cream at the next stop, made her laugh.''

Hotung was 31 when he inherited his father's money. ``I wasn't always wise,'' he confesses. ``As a student in Washington, I had spent too much time drinking beers and skipping lectures. When I had money, well there were times when I spent it like a drunken sailor.''

Which is why, he says, children should not inherit until they are older. ``Oh, at least 60.''

Hotung does, however, concede that some of the responsibility for his sons' actions must rest with him. ``We gave them, perhaps, too much.''

Although his inherited fortune was considerable, the young Hotung accrued considerable debt during the 1960s. Part of his father's estate included 10 old houses, which he razed to build high-rises. He borrowed heavily. Then he went into the export business, once buying 30,000 pounds of chicken and 3,000 crates of toilet rolls that no one wanted.

``I ended up selling door-to-door. But I learned a lesson. I remember once being so frightened that I would have cut off two fingers if I could have been released from my debt. Maybe it is the memory of that debt that makes me think my sons should make their own ways,'' he says.

Suddenly, he breaks off. ``Where can one buy liquor here? And flowers. I want to send flowers.''

Ill health has not affected his lifestyle overly, he says, only in that he must be more circumspect about what he drinks. ``Six vodkas, straight, at one sitting. No more.''

Two hours have passed and the conversation turns again to Hotung's humanitarian achievements. Is there, I ask, one thing that he still hopes to accomplish in his lifetime?

He gives me a guarded look. ``Yeeesss,'' he says. ``But it would be an international bombshell.'' Something to do with peace? Again a hesitant agreement. To do with China? Another nod. ``If I tell you, you must give me your word of honor you will not reveal it yet,'' he says.

I give my word and Hotung tells me of the one, final achievement he yearns for. He promises, when it comes to fruition, to tell me first.

So much compassionate work. Is it the legacy he wishes to leave, I ask? Hotung smiles impishly. ``I just want to ensure I shall get into Heaven.''