Your Uncle
Vincent and your aunt and I thought that he'd behaved so well, been so
quiet and steady all this time, that really something ought to be done
about him. It's been on my conscience, I can assure you, for a long time
past. Well, I've written to him. I'm going to see him. Of course it's
better to be quiet about it whilst your grandmother feels as she
does--but in time----"

Rachel's voice was sharp and rather harsh as she said, "Dear Uncle John,
that _is_ kind of you. I'm so glad. Poor Cousin Frank! I always felt it
unfair."

John looked at her with one of his supplicating,
"Please-don't-be-hard-on-me" glances.

Rachel really _was_ strange. She seemed to dislike the idea of Breton's
redemption. He had thought that she would have been delighted.

She kissed him. "Nothing's ever to come between us again," she
whispered. He pressed her hand.

"I must just look in upon Roddy," he said, and they went down together.

III

The thought that instantly occurred to her was that she must not allow
Uncle John to talk to Roddy about Breton. She saw some innocent word
falling, like a match into a haystack, and starting immediately the most
horrible blaze.

There were other thoughts behind that--thought of her grandmother's
actions when she heard of this, thoughts of Roddy's probable decision
about it, thoughts that she, Rachel, might prove to be the one person in
the world who had helped to drive Breton out, thoughts intolerable were
they, for a moment, indulged--but now, as she walked, laughing,
downstairs, with Uncle John, her one urgent resolve was to prevent an
immediate scene.

She need not have feared. Massiter, stout, red-faced, hearty and stupid,
held the stage. He had been holding it since three o'clock and Roddy's
white face showed fatigue, his eyes were half closed and, although he
smiled, his mind, distressed and exhausted, was far away.

Rachel's glance at him told her that his visitor had been too much for
him. When she saw Roddy like this she longed to have him alone, away
from all the world, to love him and care for him; although, in hard
fact, when he was worn out, Peters was of more value than she. She
looked at him now, loved him and was also afraid; she hated Lord
Massiter, at this moment, and hoped that he would go.

He talked in his cheerful voice, as though he were addressing an
assembly in the open air. He spoke of the hunting (pretty rotten), of
the musical comedies (absolutely rotten)