ed to be alone
with 'old Miltoun,' and he discreetly left the room.

That which disconcerted all who had dealings with Miltoun was the
discovery made soon or late, that they could not be sure how anything
would strike him. In his mind, as in his face, there was a certain
regularity, and then--impossible to say exactly where--it would, shoot
off and twist round a corner. This was the legacy no doubt of the
hard-bitten individuality, which had brought to the front so many of his
ancestors; for in Miltoun was the blood not only of the Caradocs and
Fitz-Harolds, but of most other prominent families in the kingdom, all of
whom, in those ages before money made the man, must have had a forbear
conspicuous by reason of qualities, not always fine, but always poignant.

And now, though Lady Valleys had the audacity of her physique, and was
not customarily abashed, she began by speaking of politics, hoping her
son would give her an opening. But he gave her none, and she grew
nervous. At last, summoning all her coolness, she said:

"I'm dreadfully sorry about this affair, dear boy. Your father told me
of your talk with him. Try not to take it too hard."

Miltoun did not answer, and silence being that which Lady Valleys
habitually most dreaded, she took refuge in further speech, outlining for
her son the whole episode as she saw it from her point of view, and
ending with these words:

"Surely it's not worth it."

Miltoun heard her with his peculiar look, as of a man peering through a
vizor. Then smiling, he said:

"Thank you;" and opened the door.

Lady Valleys, without quite knowing whether he intended her to do so,
indeed without quite knowing anything at the moment, passed out, and
Miltoun closed the door behind her.

Ten minutes later he and Bertie were seen riding down the drive.

CHAPTER XIX

That afternoon the wind, which had been rising steadily, brought a flurry
of clouds up from the South-West. Formed out on the heart of the
Atlantic, they sailed forward, swift and fleecy at first, like the
skirmishing white shallops of a great fleet; then, in serried masses,
darkened the sun. About four o'clock they broke in rain, which the wind
drove horizontally with a cold whiffling murmur. As youth and glamour
die in a face before the cold rains of life, so glory died on the moor.
The tors, from being uplifted wild castles, became mere grey
excrescences. Distance failed. The cuckoos were silent. There w