It was just at a time when the Rector was in high glee, for there had been no parish troubles for some time. He was beginning to make the people understand him, he told the curate, who bowed and said nothing, though he did think about his efforts to preserve peace. Julia and Cynthia were staying in town with Claudine and Faustine Perry-Morton, an act of kindness those ladies said, while their dear brother was forced to be in Rome, where the new art society had invited him to be president and inaugurate their proceedings. Then, although Frank was still at home, leading a life that, if he had been a poor man's son, would have been called "loafing," there was hope for Cyril, and a chance for weaning him from this attachment for Sage Portlock. In fact, jumping at a hint from the Rector, Lord Artingale had gone to Magnus and asked his advice, which was freely given, with a good idea or two how to set about it, and the result was that he had the pleasure of writing down to the Rector that the Duke of Borwick had given him an excellent post for his friend. "It is only five hundred a year," wrote Lord Artingale, "but I dare say something better will come." The Rector took the letter into Mrs Mallow's room after reading it in the grape house, where he had been busy trimming special bunches intended for the invalid's use. "He's a good fellow, Artingale, a thoroughly good fellow," he said. "Sunshine at last for that unhappy boy." "Our son, Eli," said Mrs Mallow, reproachfully. "If he is unhappy, may not we be to blame?" The Rector's delight was of short duration, for Cyril's next move was to tell his father flatly that he had not been consulted, and that he should decline the post. "But you must take it, Cyril," said his father. "Why, my boy, I have been so full of hope that since our last quarrel you had seen the folly of your ways, and were becoming obedient, and willing to take your place in the duties of the world." "I have tried," said Cyril, mournfully. "You have, I know, my boy," cried the Rector, "and conquered." "Conquered!" said Cyril, tragically. "No, father, I have obeyed you, and kept away from Sage Portlock, but I am more than ever her slave." He strode out of the room, leaving the Rector wishing that the Portlocks had never come to Kilby, and that he had never made such a _protegee_ of Sage, ending by going into Mrs Mallow's room to pour out his plaints in her willing ear. "What is to be done with the boy?" he said, dolefully. "I will never get into a passion with him again. But what is to be done? He has some plan in view." "Let me see him," said Mrs Mallow. "Give me some latitude, dear, and I will try to bring him to a better way of thinking." "Do what you will," said the unhappy father, "only bring him to his senses. Here have I been almost on my knees to Artingale to get him this post, and now he says that he will not have it." "He would take it if we consented to his marrying Sage Portlock."