He was a man of blameless private life, a widower and childless. In later years he had come to believe that he had once been very deeply in love with his cousin, Susan, who had married a rather careless husband named Douglas; both she and Douglas were dead now, but he maintained a touching affection for her two lively rather than satisfying sons. He called them his nephews, and by the continuous attrition of affection he had become their recognized uncle. He was glad when they came to him in their scrapes, and he liked to be seen about with them in public places. They regarded him with considerable confidence and respect and an affection that they sometimes blamed themselves for as not quite warm enough for his merits. But there is a kind of injustice about affection. He was really gratified when he got a wire from the less discreditable of these two bright young relations, saying, “Sorely in need of your advice. Hope to bring difficulties to you to-day at twelve.” He concluded very naturally that the boy had come to some crisis in his unfortunate entanglement with Madeleine Philips, and he was flattered by the trustfulness that brought the matter to him. He resolved to be delicate but wily, honourable, strictly honourable, but steadily, patiently separative. He paced his spacious study with his usual morning’s work neglected, and rehearsed little sentences in his mind that might be effective in the approaching interview. There would probably be emotion. He would pat the lad on his shoulder and be himself a little emotional. “I understand, my boy,” he would say, “I understand. “Don’t forget, my boy, that I’ve been a young man too.” He would be emotional, he would be sympathetic, but also he must be a man of the world. “Sort of thing that won’t do, you know, my boy; sort of thing that people will _not_ stand.... A soldier’s wife has to be a soldier’s wife and nothing else.... Your business is to serve the king, not—not some celebrity. Lovely, no doubt. I don’t deny the charm of her—but on the hoardings, my boy.... Now don’t you think—don’t you _think_?—there’s some nice pure girl somewhere, sweet as violets, new as the dawn, and ready to be _yours_; a girl, I mean, a maiden fancy free, not—how shall I put it?—a woman of the world. Wonderful, I admit—but seasoned. Public. My dear, dear boy, I knew your mother when she was a girl, a sweet pure girl—a thing of dewy freshness. Ah! Well I remember her! All these years, my boy—Nothing. It’s difficult....” Tears stood in his brave old blue eyes as he elaborated such phrases. He went up and down mumbling them through the defective teeth and the long moustache and waving an eloquent hand. § 2