some money in a trouser pocket.

"Something in that, of course," he said gruffly. "All the same, the
decision's with Nollie. We'll see what Thirza says. Anyway, there's no
hurry. It's a thousand pities you're a parson; the trouble's enough
without that:"

Edward shook his head. "My position is nothing; it's the thought of my
child, my wife's child. It's sheer pride; and I can't subdue it. I can't
fight it down. God forgive me, I rebel."

And Robert thought: 'By George, he does take it to heart! Well, so
should I! I do, as it is!' He took out his pipe, and filled it, pushing
the tobacco down and down.

"I'm not a man of the world," he heard his brother say; "I'm out of touch
with many things. It's almost unbearable to me to feel that I'm joining
with the world to condemn my own daughter; not for their reasons,
perhaps--I don't know; I hope not, but still, I'm against her."

Robert lit his pipe.

"Steady, old man!" he said. "It's a misfortune. But if I were you I
should feel: 'She's done a wild, silly thing, but, hang it, if anybody
says a word against her, I'll wring his neck.' And what's more, you'll
feel much the same, when it comes to the point." He emitted a huge puff
of smoke, which obscured his brother's face, and the blood, buzzing in
his temples, seemed to thicken the sound of Edward's voice.

"I don't know; I've tried to see clearly. I have prayed to be shown what
her duty is, and mine. It seems to me there can be no peace for her
until she has atoned, by open suffering; that the world's judgment is her
cross, and she must bear it; especially in these days, when all the world
is facing suffering so nobly. And then it seems so hard-so bitter; my
poor little Nollie!"

There was a silence, broken only by the gurgling of Robert's pipe, till
he said abruptly:

"I don't follow you, Ted; no, I don't. I think a man should screen his
children all he can. Talk to her as you like, but don't let the world do
it. Dash it, the world's a rotten gabbling place. I call myself a man
of the world, but when it comes to private matters--well, then I draw the
line. It seems to me it seems to me inhuman. What does George Laird
think about it? He's a knowing chap. I suppose you've--no, I suppose
you haven't--" For a peculiar smile had come on Edward's face.

"No," he said, "I should hardly ask George Laird's opinion."

And Robert realised suddenly the stubborn loneliness of that thin black
figur