ity, had remained,
throughout, a solid and efficient alliance. Taking, as they both did,
such prominent parts in public and social matters, the time they spent
together was limited, but productive of mutual benefit and reinforcement.
They had not yet had an opportunity of discussing their son's affair;
and, slipping her hand through his arm, Lady Valleys drew him away from
the house.

"I want to talk to you about Miltoun, Geoff."

"H'm!" said Lord Valleys; "yes. The boy's looking worn. Good thing when
this election's over."

"If he's beaten and hasn't something new and serious to concentrate
himself on, he'll fret his heart out over that woman."

Lord Valleys meditated a little before replying.

"I don't think that, Gertrude. He's got plenty of spirit."

"Of course! But it's a real passion. And, you know, he's not like most
boys, who'll take what they can."

She said this rather wistfully.

"I'm sorry for the woman," mused Lord Valleys; "I really am."

"They say this rumour's done a lot of harm."

"Our influence is strong enough to survive that."

"It'll be a squeak; I wish I knew what he was going to do. Will you ask
him?"

"You're clearly the person to speak to him," replied Lord Valleys. "I'm
no hand at that sort of thing."

But Lady Valleys, with genuine discomfort, murmured:

"My dear, I'm so nervous with Eustace. When he puts on that smile of his
I'm done for, at once."

"This is obviously a woman's business; nobody like a mother."

"If it were only one of the others," muttered Lady Valleys: "Eustace has
that queer way of making you feel lumpy."

Lord Valleys looked at her askance. He had that kind of critical
fastidiousness which a word will rouse into activity. Was she lumpy? The
idea had never struck him.

"Well, I'll do it, if I must," sighed Lady Valleys.

When after breakfast she entered Miltoun's 'den,' he was buckling on his
spurs preparatory, to riding out to some of the remoter villages. Under
the mask of the Apache chief, Bertie was standing, more inscrutable and
neat than ever, in a perfectly tied cravatte, perfectly cut riding
breeches, and boots worn and polished till a sooty glow shone through
their natural russet. Not specially dandified in his usual dress, Bertie
Caradoc would almost sooner have died than disgrace a horse. His eyes,
the sharper because they had only half the space of the ordinary eye to
glance from, at once took in the fact that his mother wish