!"

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
figure, whose fingers were playing with a little gold cross. 'By Jove!'
he thought, 'I believe old Ted's like one of those Eastern chaps who
go into lonely places. He's got himself surrounded by visions of things
that aren't there. He lives in unreality--something we can't understand.
I shouldn't be surprised if he heard voices, like--'who was it? Tt,
tt! What a pity!' Ted was deceptive. He was gentle and--all that, a
gentleman of course, and that disguised him; but underneath; what was
there--a regular ascetic, a fakir! And a sense of bewilderment, of
dealing with something which he could not grasp, beset Bob Pierson, so
that he went back to the table, and sat down again beside his port.

"It seems to me," he said rather gruffly, "that the chicken had better
be hatched before we count it." And then, sorry for his brusqueness,
emptied his glass. As the fluid passed over his palate, he thought:
'Poor old Ted! He doesn't even drink--hasn't a pleasure in life, so far
as I can see, except doing his duty, and doesn't even seem to know
what that is. There aren't many like him--luckily! And yet I love
him--pathetic chap!'

The "pathetic chap" was still staring at the flames. 3

And at this very hour, when the brothers were talking--for thought and
feeling do pass mysteriously over the invisible wires of space Cyril
Morland's son was being born of Noel, a little before his time.

PART III

I

Down by the River Wye, among plum-trees in blossom, Noel had laid her
baby in a hammock, and stood reading a letter:

"MY DEAREST NOLLIE,

"Now that you are strong again, I feel that I must put before you my
feeling as to your duty in this crisis of your life. Your aunt and uncle
have made the most kind and