His fingertips sank into his cheek, bruising the flesh. What would become of his six days of work? What would become of his cunning and his forethought? All destroyed at a blow. For if she adopted the boy, the very law would keep her from denying him afterward. For a moment it seemed to him that some devil must have forewarned her of his plans. "You don't approve?" she said at last, anxiously. He threw himself back in the chair and laughed. All his despair went into that hollow, ringing sound. "Approve? It's a queer question to ask me. But let it go. I know I couldn't change you." "I know that you have a right to advise," she said gently. "You are my father's son and you have a right to advise on the placing of his name." He had to keep fighting against surging desires to throw his rage in her face. But he mastered himself, except for a tremor of his voice. "When are you going to do it?" "Tomorrow." "Elizabeth, why not wait until after the birthday ceremony?" "Because I've been haunted by peculiar fears, since our last talk, that something might happen before that time. I've actually lain awake at night and thought about it! And I want to forestall all chances. I want to rivet him to me!" He could see by her eagerness that her mind had been irrevocably made up, and that nothing could change her. She wanted agreement, not advice. And with consummate bitterness of soul he submitted to his fate. "I suppose you're right. Call him down now and I'll be present when you ask him to join the circle--the family circle of the Cornishes, you know." He could not school all the bitterness out of his voice, but she seemed too glad of his bare acquiescence to object to such trifles. She sent Wu Chi to call Terence down to them. He had apparently been in his shirt sleeves working at the gun. He came with his hands still faintly glistening from their hasty washing, and with the coat which he had just bundled into still rather bunched around his big shoulders. He came and stood against the massive, rough-finished stones of the fireplace looking down at Elizabeth. There had always been a sort of silent understanding between him and Vance. They never exchanged more words and looks than were absolutely necessary. Vance realized it more than ever as he looked up to the tall athletic figure. And he realized also that since he had last looked closely at Terence the latter had slipped out of boyhood and into manhood. There was that indescribable something about the set of the chin and the straight-looking eyes that spelled the difference. "Terence," she said, "for twenty-four years you have been my boy." "Yes, Aunt Elizabeth." He acknowledged the gravity of this opening statement by straightening a little, his hand falling away from the stone against which he had been leaning. But Vance looked more closely at his sister. He could see the gleam of worship in her eyes.