. This sudden upheaval of the past, coming upon him with a
certain spasmodic unexpectedness, had shaken his nerves. He had not
believed himself capable of anything of the sort. The unusual
excitement was upon him still. All sorts of memories and fancies long
ago buried, thronged in upon him. So he sat there and suffered,
striving in vain to crush them, whilst faces mocked him from the
shadows, and familiar voices rang strangely in his ears. He scarcely
heard the softly-opened door. The light footsteps and the rustling of
skirts had their place amongst the throng of torturing memories. But
his eyes--surely his eyes could not mock him. He started to his feet.

"Catherine!"

She did not speak at once, but all sorts of things were in her eyes. He
ground his teeth together, and made one effort to remain his old self.

"You have come to offer--your sympathy. How delightful of you. The
bishop got on my nerves, you know, and I really am not answerable for
what I said. Catherine!"

She threw her arms around his neck.

"You dear!" she exclaimed. "I am not afraid of you any more. Kiss me,
Philip, and don't talk nonsense, because I shan't listen to you."

Brooks drove up in hot haste. The butler stopped him respectfully.

"His lordship is particularly engaged, sir."

"He will see me," Brooks answered. "Please announce me--Lord Kingston
of Ross!"

"I beg your pardon, sir," the man stammered.

"Lord Kingston of Ross," Brooks repeated, casting off for ever the old
name as though it were a disused glove. "Announce me at once."

It was the Arranmore trick of imperiousness, and the man recognized it.
He threw open the study door with trembling fingers, but he was careful
to knock first.

"Lord Kingston of Ross."

He walked to his father with outstretched hand.

"You were right, sir," he said, simply. "I was a prig!"

They stood for a moment, their hands locked. It was a silent greeting,
but their faces were eloquent. Brooks looked from his father to Lady
Caroom and smiled.

"I could not wait," he said. "I was forced to come to you at once.
But I think that I will go now and pay another call."

He stood outside on the kerb while they fetched him a hansom. The fresh
night wind blew in his face, cool and sweet. From Piccadilly came the
faint hum of tram, and the ceaseless monotonous beat of hurrying
footsteps. The hansom pulled up before him with a jerk. He sprang
lightly in.

"No. 110, Crescent Flats, Kensington."