Madam Flemington was removed by two generations from Archie, and there was a gulf of evolution between them, unrealized by either. Their conscious ideals might be identical; but their unconscious ideals, those that count with nations and with individuals, were different. And the same trouble, one that might be accepted and acknowledged by each, must affect each differently. The old regard a tragedy through its influences on the past, and the young through its influences on the future. To Archie, Madam Flemington's revelation was an insignificant thing compared to the horror that was upon him now. It was done and it could not be undone, and he was himself, with his life before him, in spite of it. It was like the withered leaf of a poisonous plant, a thing rendered innocuous by the processes of nature. What process of nature could make his agony innocuous? The word 'treachery' had become a nightmare to him, and on every side he was fated to hear it. Its full meaning had only been brought home to him two days ago, and now the hateful thing was being pressed on him by one who had suffered from it bitterly. What could he say to her? How was he to make her see as he saw? His difficulty was a sentimental one, and one that she would not recognize. Archie was not logical. He had still not much feeling about having deceived Lord Balnillo, whose hospitality he had accepted and enjoyed, but, as he had said, he could not go "man-hunting" after James, who had offered him a brother's help, whose heart he had seen, whose life had already been cut in two by the baneful thing. There was little room in Archie's soul for anything but the shadow of that nightmare of treachery, and the shadow was creeping towards him. Had his mother been a grand-duchess of spotless reputation, what could her virtue or her blue blood avail him in his present distress? She was nothing to him, that "slut" who had brought him forth; he owed her no allegiance, bore her no grudge. The living woman to whom he owed all stood before him beloved, admired, cutting him to the heart. He assented silently; but Christian understood that, though he looked as if she had carried her point, his looks were the only really unreliable part of him. She knew that he was that curious thing--a man who could keep his true self separate from his moods. It had taken her years to learn that, but she had learnt it at last. For once she was, like other people, baffled by his naturalness. It was plain that he suffered, yet she could not tell how she was to mould the hard stuff hidden below his suffering. But she must work with the heavy hand. "You will leave here to-morrow," she said; "you shall not stay here to shirk your duty"; and again the pupils of her eyes contracted as she said it. "I will go now," said he. CHAPTER IX "TOUJOURS DE L'AUDACE" "DOAG," said the beggar, addressing the yellow cur, "you an' me'll need to be speerin' aboot this. Whiles, it's no sae easy tellin' havers frae truth."