"There _is_ something--two things," he answered her slowly. "You can dismiss me for an interfering old fool, you know. You often have been tempted to do it before, I dare say."

"I have," she said. "Go on."

But as she spoke she drew her hands a little more closely together. She was not quite so ready for these battles as she had once been. She was afraid a little now. A new sensation for her; she hated that restricting awkwardness that would remain between them for days afterwards.

She looked at his red, cheerful face and wondered impatiently why he must always be meddling in other people's affairs. She hated Quixotes.

"Your Grace," he began again, "has only got to stop me and I'll say no more."

"Oh yes, you will," she said impatiently. "I know you. Say what you please."

"I want to speak about Francis Breton----" He paused, but she said nothing, only for an instant her whole face flashed into stone. The firelight seemed for an instant to hold it there, then, as the flame fell, she was once again indifferent.

Christopher had grasped his courage now. He went on gravely:

"I must speak about him. I know how unpleasant the whole subject is to you. We've had our discussions before and I've fought his battles with all the world more times than I can count. You must remember that I've known Frank all his life--I knew his unhappy father. I've known them both long enough to realize that the boy's been heavily handicapped from the beginning----"

"Must you," she said, looking him now full in the face, "must it be this? Have we not thrashed it out thoroughly enough already? I don't change, you know."

He understood that she was appealing to his regard for their own especial relationship. But there was a note of control in her voice; he knew that now she would listen:

"I've cared for Frank during a number of years. I know he's weak, impulsive, incredibly foolish. He's always been his own worst enemy. I know that the other day he wrote a most foolish letter----"

"It was a letter beyond forgiveness," she said, her voice trembling.

"Yes, I would give anything to have prevented it. I know that when he was in England before I pleaded for him, as I am doing now, and that by a thousand foolhardy actions he negatived anything that I could say for him.

"I'm urging no defence for the things that he did, the shady, disreputable things. But he has come back now, I do verily believe, ready, even eager, to turn over a new leaf. I----"

She interrupted him, smiling.

"Yes. That letter----"

"Oh, I know. But isn't it a very proof of what I say--would anyone but a foolhardy boy have done such a thing? Sheer bravado, hoping behind it all to be taken back to the fold--eager, at any rate, not to show a poor spirit, cowardice."

"Over thirty now--old for a boy----"

"In years, yes. But younger, oh! ages younger than that in spirit, in knowledge of the world, in everything that matters--I know," he went on more slowly, smiling a little, "that you've called me sentimentalist times without number--but really here I'm not urging you to anything from sentimental reasons. I'm not asking you to take him back and kill the fatted calf for him.

"I'm asking nothing absurd--only that you, his relations, all that he has of kith and kin, should not be his enemies, should not drive him to desperation--and worse."

"If you imagine," she said steadily, "that his fate is of the smallest concern to me you know me very little. I care nothing of what becomes of him. He and I have been enemies for many years now and a few words from you cannot change that."

"I'm only asking you," he replied, "to give him a chance. See what you can make of him, instead of sending him into the other camp--use him even if you cannot care for him. There's fine stuff there in spite of his follies. The day might come, even now, when you will own yourself proud of him----"

But she had caught him up, leaning forward a little, her voice now of a sharper turn. "The other camp? What other camp?"

He caught the note of danger. "I only mean," he said, choosing now his words with the greatest care, "that if you turn Frank definitely, once and for all, from your doors, there may be others ready to receive him----"

"His men and his women," she broke in scornfully; "don't I know them?

I've not lived these years without knowing the raffish tenth-rate lot that failures like Frank Breton affect----"

"No--there are others," Christopher said firmly, "Mrs. Bronson, for instance----"

At that name she broke in.

"Yes--exactly. Mrs. Bronson. Oh! I know the kind of crowd that Mrs.

Bronson and her like can gather. They are welcome to Francis and he to them."--She paused. He saw that she was controlling herself with a great effort. For a little while there was silence and then she went on, more quietly:

"There, now you have it. That is why there can never be any truce between Francis and myself. It is more than Francis--it is all the things that he stands for, all the things that will soon make England a rubbish heap for every dirty foreigner to dump his filth on to. Hate him? Why, I'll fight him and all that he stands for so long as there's breath in my body----"

"But Frank is with you," Christopher urged eagerly, "if you'll let him be. He's only in need of your hand and back he'll come. He's waiting there now--longing, in spite of his defiance, for a word. Give him it and in the end I know as surely as I sit here that he'll be worth your while----"

"What can he do for me?"

"Ah! He'll show you. After all, he is one of the family; he's miserable there in his exile. He's got your own spirit--he'd die rather than own to defeat--but he'll repay you if you have him."

He saw then, as she turned towards him, that he had done no good.

"Listen," she said, "I've heard you fairly. Let us leave this now, once and for all. I tell you finally no word that G.o.d Almighty could speak on this business could change me one atom. Francis Breton and I are foes for all time. I hate not only himself and the miserable mess that he's made of his life, I hate all this new generation that he stands for.

"I hate these new opinions, I hate this indulgence now towards everything that any fool in the country may choose to think or say. In my day we knew how to use the fools. Took advantage of their muddle, ran the world on it. I loathe this tendency to make everyone as intelligent as they can be! Why! in G.o.d's name! Give me two intelligent men and a dozen fools and you'll get something done. Take a wastrel like Frank and turn him out. Take muddlers like my family and keep 'em muddled. Richard ran the country well enough for a time or two, and he's been a muddler from his childhood.

"All this cry to educate the people, to be kind to thieves and murderers! to help the fools--my G.o.d! If I still had my say--Whilst there's breath in me I'll fight the lot of them."

She leant back in her chair, waited for breath, and then went on more mildly:

"You may like all this noise and clamour, Doctor. You may like your Mrs.

Bronson and the rest--common, vulgar, brainless--ruling the world. Every decent law that held society together is being broken and n.o.body cares.

"Frank Breton may find his place in this new world. He has no place in mine."

Then she added: "So much for that--what's the other thing?"

But he hesitated. Her voice was tired, even tremulous, and he was aware as he looked across at her that her emotions now treated her more severely than they had once done. At the same time he was aware that giving free play to her temper always did her good.

"Well--perhaps--another day----"

"No--now. I may as well take my scoldings together--it saves time!"

He stood up and, leaning on the mantelpiece with one arm, looked down upon her.

"Here," he said, "I'm afraid I may seem doubly impertinent, but it's a matter that is closer to me than anything in the world. You know that I'm a lonely old bachelor and that all those sentiments that you accuse me of must find some vent somewhere. I'm fonder of Rachel, I think, than I am of anyone in the world, and it's only that affection and the feeling that, in some ways, I know her better than any of you do that give me courage to speak."

He could see that now she was reaching the limits of her patience.

"Well--what of Rachel?"

"I understand--I know--that you--that all of you intend that she shall marry young Seddon----"