these objectionable alternatives was least
objectionable Lord Fallowfeild still stood in doubt, when, in obedience
to the parental summons, the young man reached Whitney. Lord
Fallowfeild had whipped himself up into a laudable heat of righteous
indignation before the arrival of the prodigal. Yet he contrived to be
out when the dog-cart conveying the said prodigal, and Mr. Decies of
the 101st Lancers--a friend of Guy Quayle, home on leave from India,
whence he brought news of his fellow-subaltern--actually drove up to
the door. When, pushed thereto by an accusing conscience, he did at
last come in, Lord Fallowfeild easily persuaded himself that there
really was not time before dinner for the momentous conversation.
Moreover, being very full of the milk of human kindness, he found it
infinitely more agreeable to hear the praises of the absent son, Guy,
than to fall foul of the present son, Shotover. So that it was not till
quite late that night, by which time he was slightly sleepy, while his
anger had sensibly evaporated, that the interview did, actually, take
place.

"Now then, Shotover, march off to the place of execution," Ludovic
Quayle said sweetly, as he picked up his bedroom candlestick. "It was a
deep and subtle thought that of bringing down Decies. Only, query, did
you think of it, or was it just a bit of your usual luck?"

Lord Shotover smiled rather ruefully upon his prosperous, and, it may
be added, slightly parsimonious, younger brother.

"Well, I don't deny it did occur to me it might work," he admitted.
"And after all, you know, one mercy is there's no real vice about his
dear old lordship."

Lord Fallowfeild fidgeted about the library, his expression that of a
well-nourished and healthy, but rather fretful infant.

"Oh! ah!--well--so here you are, Shotover," he said. "Unpleasant
business this of yours--uncommonly disagreeable business for both of
us."

"Deuced unpleasant business," the younger man echoed heartily. He
closely resembled his father in looks, save that he was clean shaven
and of a lighter build. Both father and son had the same slight lisp in
speaking. "Deuced unpleasant," he repeated. "Nobody can feel that more
than I do."

"Can't they though," said Lord Fallowfeild, with a charmingly innocent
air of surprise. "There, sit down, Shotover, won't you? It's a painful
thing to do, but we've got to talk it over, I suppose."

"Well, of course, if you're kind enough to give me the time, yo