Lady Southwold has tears in her eyes. “There is a postscript,” continues Bertram, “‘Take care of my horses and dogs.’ The priest adds that the poor fellow had desired him to send it to the English Embassy, and died half an hour after dictating it. That is all.” “It is very touching,” says his aunt. “I wish we had known him.” “So do I.” “A pity you did not get it earlier,” says Southwold, “or had not been so precipitate.” Bertram folds the letter up and looks across at the Malmaison roses. “Magdalen College,” adds Southwold, grimly, “won’t trouble itself much about the horses and dogs.” “Can’t you withdraw your refusal, Wilfrid?” asks his aunt. Bertram is silent. “Would they let you?” asks Southwold. “It is a cruel position to be placed in,” says Bertram. “Would it be utterly impossible,” says Southwold, sarcastically, “for you to regard it, as a mere, humdrum, ordinary Philistine person like myself would do, as a very fortuitous and felicitous piece of good luck?” “Good luck!” echoes Bertram, in disgust. “Cannot you see that whatever I do I must feel humiliation and remorse; that however I may decide, I must feel that I leave some duty undone?” “No,” says Southwold, very shortly, “I really cannot see anything of the sort. But I am obtuse, and I am very commonplace.” There is again a prolonged silence. It is broken by the low, clear voice of Cicely Seymour, on whose hair the last rays of the dim red London sun are shining in a nimbus. “I understand what Mr. Bertram feels. To accept this fortune will be painful, and even odious to him with his views. But to let it go to others, even to Oxford, must be, after receiving this letter, equally distressing to him because he will feel that he has failed to carry out a dead man’s trust. Is not that your meaning, Mr. Bertram?” “It is.” “These are very fine-drawn sentiments, and they are, I confess, wholly beyond me,” says Southwold, with gruff contempt. “I know what they both mean,” says his wife. “But to me too it is, I admit, rather far-fetched. It seems to me so easy and so simple to go back to Folliott and Hake and say, ‘I have changed my mind; I accept.’” “But would it be right to do so?” says Bertram. “How can I be sure that the foul fiend of selfishness is not deluding me by taking the shape of duty?” “You split straws!” growls Southwold. “The business of the world would never get done if men hemmed and hawed and tortured themselves as you do. _Can_ you retract your refusal? That’s the main question.” “I can. Folliott said that they should take no action on it for twenty-four hours, but hold it in abeyance for that term. Fanshawe suggested that, indeed insisted on it.” “Fortunate for you that a practical man was with you. I have a respect for Mr. Fanshawe which I did not feel before. Well, my dear Wilfrid, you can’t hesitate.” Bertram does hesitate. He looks across at the roses. “Will you decide for me, Miss Seymour?”