"As to our future? Not a word," she replied. "But it’s for him to decide. I shall not try to persuade him either way, though if I thought it would be better for him were we never to meet again, I might be persuaded to give way even in opposition to his wishes. I can’t say yet. I haven’t had time to think.... I’ve suffered, Sir Reginald. Rupert and I were more to each other than most brothers and sisters, perhaps. But Jim is more to me than father or mother. He’s all the world to me." "Yes, yes, of course. But——" "It’s for he and me to decide," Marjorie said again. "This blow that has fallen, this shame, which I suppose attaches to my name, affects only him and me. Not you nor my father, not you nor anyone else in the world. We two must settle it, no one else." She bowed gravely, and Sir Reginald turned away without speaking again. There was nothing more to be said. He did not go straight home, he took a long walk. His wishes had never been opposed, and he had not expected opposition now. What would his son say? Directly after luncheon he broached the subject by asking when his leave was up. "In about a week’s time, guv’nor! Why, are you in a hurry to get rid of me?" Sir Reginald stood with his back to the great oak fireplace in the large panel dining-room, and with fingers that were not quite steady lit a cigar. "When I bid Dale good-bye at Charing Cross Hospital before leaving London he told me your secret, Jim. I was sorry to hear it from a stranger’s lips. You’ve never kept anything from me before." Jim nodded. "I’m sorry, sir. It was a secret I’ll admit. Love is different—to other things, and I wanted to be sure of myself and sure of her." "That’s all right. But this unfortunate affair has, of course, altered everything. I saw Marjorie this morning. I went over to sympathise with her and see if we could do anything to help her. She broached the subject." "About our marriage?" Sir Reginald looked at the end of his cigar. "There can be no question of marriage now." "Why not?" "My boy!" There was a long silence. Father and son looked into one another’s eyes. The father was the first to lower his gaze. "I love her, sir." "Yes, of course." Sir Reginald coughed. "I’m sorry for you. But you’re young. You—you don’t know your own mind." Again a short silence. "Has anything I ever did at school or after I left school, at Sandhurst or at home or since I joined the Flying Corps, suggested to you that I don’t know my own mind? That I am fickle or changeable?" "No." Sir Reginald was not used to being questioned by his son. He was off his guard. "I’ve never shown myself a coward in any way, father?" The old man started, came a step nearer to his boy and looked at him again. And his eyes lighted as he smiled. "Good heavens, Jim, you a coward! My dear boy!"