ed, characteristically hesitating. Then he remembered
that he was the responsible head of the family of Clayhanger. "I think
you might let it grow," he decided.

And when he had issued the verdict, it seemed to him like a sentence of
sequestration and death on his father... `Let it grow! What does it
matter?' Such was the innuendo.

"You used to grow a full beard once, didn't you?" he asked.

"Yes," said Darius.

That made the situation less cruel.

VOLUME THREE, CHAPTER EIGHT.

A CHANGE OF MIND.

One evening, a year later, in earliest summer of 1887, Edwin and Mr
Osmond Orgreave were walking home together from Hanbridge. When they
reached the corner of the street leading to Lane End House, Osmond
Orgreave said, stopping--

"Now you'll come with us?" And he looked Edwin hard in the eyes, and
there was a most flattering appeal in his voice. It was some time since
their eyes had met frankly, for Edwin had recently been having
experience of Mr Orgreave's methods in financial controversy, and it
had not been agreeable.

After an instant Edwin said heartily--

"Yes, I think I'll come. Of course I should like to. But I'll let you
know."

"Tonight?"

"Yes, to-night."

"I shall tell my wife you're coming."

Mr Orgreave waved a hand, and passed with a certain decorative gaiety
down the street. His hair was now silvern, but it still curled in the
old places, and his gestures had apparently not aged at all.

Mr and Mrs Orgreave were going to London for the Jubilee celebrations.
So far as their family was concerned, they were going alone, because
Osmond had insisted humorously that he wanted a rest from his children.
But he had urgently invited Edwin to accompany them. At first Edwin had
instinctively replied that it was impossible. He could not leave home.
He had never been to London; a journey to London presented itself to him
as an immense enterprise, almost as a piece of culpable self-indulgence.
And then, under the stimulus of Osmond's energetic and adventurous
temperament, he had said to himself, "Why not? Why shouldn't I?"

The arguments favoured his going. It was absurd and scandalous that he
had never been to London: he ought for his self-respect to depart
thither at once. The legend of the Jubilee, spectacular, processional,
historic, touched his imagination. Whenever he thought of it, his fancy
saw pennons and corselets and chargers winding through stupendous
streets, and, somew