There was something in the tone of that last remark, common–place as it was, without the key to it, which the hearer disliked particularly. “I have requested the favour of your attendance here, Mr. Garnet, that I might have the benefit of your opinion upon a subject which causes me the very deepest anxiety—at least, I mean, which interests me deeply.” “Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Garnet: he could say “ah!” in such a manner that it held three volumes uncut. “Yes. I wish to ask your opinion about my poor son, Cradock.” Bull Garnet said not a word, but conveyed to the ceiling his astonishment that the housemaid had left such cobwebs there. “I fear, Garnet, you cannot sympathize with me. You are so especially fortunate in your own domestic circumstances.” “Oh,” said Mr. Garnet, still contemplating the cornice. “_Oh exclamantis est_,” beautifully observes the Eton grammar. “Yes, your son is a perfect pattern. So gentle and gentlemanly; so amiable and poetical. I had no idea he was so brave. Shall I ever see him to thank him for saving the life of my niece?” “He is a fine fellow, a noble fellow, Sir Cradock. The dearest and the best boy in the whole wide world.” The old man long had known that the flaw in Bull Garnetʼs armour was the thought of his dear boy, Bob. “And can you not fancy, Garnet, that my son, whatever he is, may also be dear to me?” “I should have said so, I must have thought so, but for the way you have treated him.” Bull Garnet knew well enough that he was a hot and hasty man; but he seldom had felt that truth more sharply than now, when he saw the result of his words. Nevertheless, he faltered not. He had made up his mind to deliver its thoughts, and he was not the man to care for faces. “Sir Cradock Nowell, I am a violent, hot, and passionate man. I have done many things in my fury which I would give my life to undo; but I would rather have them all on my soul than such cold–blooded, calm, unnatural cruelty as you have shown to your only—I mean to your own—son. I suppose you never cared for him; _suppose!_ I mean of course you did not.” He looked at Sir Cradock Nowell, with thunder and hail in his eyes. The old man could not glance it back; neither did he seem to be greatly indignant at it. “Then—then—I suppose you donʼt think—you donʼt believe, I mean, Garnet—that he did it _on purpose_?” Mr. Garnet turned pale as a winding–sheet, and could not speak for a moment. Then he looked away from Sir Cradockʼs eyes, and asked, “Is it possible that _you_ have ever thought so?” “I have tried not,” answered Sir Cradock, with his wasted bosom heaving. “God knows that I have struggled against it. Garnet, have pity upon me. If you have any of our blood in you, tell me the truth, what you think.”