e opportunity of going forward, instead of going back; there
will be plenty of ideals to take the places of those you destroy,
however priceless. And the tragedy of age is not having any more bottles
to throw."

During these words that came soothingly from Mr. Viner's firm lips
Michael had settled himself down again in the arm-chair and lighted his
pipe.

"Come, now," said the priest, "you and I have muddled through our
discussion long enough, let's gossip for a change. What's Mark Chator
doing?"

"I haven't seen much of him this term. He's still going to take orders.
I find old Chator's eternal simplicity and goodness rather wearing.
Life's pretty easy for him. I wish I could get as much out of it as
easily," Michael answered.

"Well, I can't make any comment on that last remark of yours without
plunging into platitudes that would make you terribly contemptuous of my
struggles to avoid them. But don't despise the Chators of this world."

"Oh, I don't. I envy them. Well, I must go. Thanks awfully for putting
up with me again."

Michael picked up his cap and hurried home. When he reached Carlington
Road, he was inclined to tell his mother that, if she liked, he would
go and visit Lord Saxby before he sailed; but when it came to the point
he felt too shy to reopen the subject, and decided to let the proposal
drop.

He was surprized to find that it was much easier to write to Mrs. Ross
about her husband than he thought it would be. Whether this long and
stormy day (he could scarcely believe that he had only read the news
about Captain Ross that morning) had purged him of all complexities of
emotion, he did not know; but certainly the letter was easy enough.

64 CARLINGTON ROAD.

_My dear Mrs. Ross,_

_I can't tell you the sadness of to-day. I've thought about you
most tremendously, and I think you must be gloriously proud of him.
I felt angry at first, but now I feel all right. You've always been
so stunning to me, and I've never thanked you. I do want to see you
soon. I shall never forget saying good-bye to Captain Ross. Mother
asked me to go and say good-bye to Lord Saxby. I don't suppose you
ever met him. He's a sort of cousin of ours. But I did not want to
spoil the memory of that day at Southampton. I haven't seen poor
old Alan yet. He'll be in despair. I'm longing to see him
to-morrow. This is a rotten letter, but I can't write down what I