“That is like your generosity, Horace,” she replied slowly. “I accept. Now I am sure you wish to go and see Edith before it is too late.” (“Edith” was a distinct concession, but Miss Lestrange knew the value of inconclusive concessions.) “By-and-by you will tell me what you two are going to do about the boy. I hope, even if you decide to disregard Bossage, you will let him come away with me after your marriage, till you get settled, and it is convenient for you to have him back.” After all, she hadn’t put him in a corner--she hadn’t tied him down nor asked him for a promise, or made a scene. She had done none of the things he had feared; she had merely given him “rope enough to hang himself,” and then let him go to accomplish the performance. Horace did not know what had happened; he felt, indeed, vaguely uncomfortable. There was the strange story about Edith--pure folly but still strange--and there was this news of his boy’s health and his evident frightened horror of the new relationship. He might go and see Bossage, but he had a horror of going to see doctors--a horror born of terrible useless hours, while hideous, unavailing efforts were being made to stop the feeble ebbing of Annette’s little life. No, he wasn’t going to see doctors! But Edith was so keen to have the little chap. It was hard on Edith. (He did not consider it was hard upon himself--he was not apt to take that view of misfortune.) They had talked about him for hours, and it had all been so natural and right and easy--their future life together had been built around Annette’s son; the picture seemed suddenly a piece of vacant canvas brushed out by ineffaceable hygienic whitewash. There was only one thing to be done. He would dismiss Flinders. Mr. Flinders had, perhaps, some right to consider himself in after years an ill-used man. He had been given notice with implacable and relentless abruptness; no explanation had been given or listened to. If Lestrange had not been so extremely quiet, Mr. Flinders would have thought he was dealing with a man who was in a dangerous rage; as it was, he merely clung to the idea (which was not originally perhaps his own) that Lestrange was a well-meaning fool, governed by a tyrannical and scheming adventuress. Miss Lestrange, who was most sympathetic about it next morning, assured him of the fact. “It is natural,” she said graciously, “for people like yourself, Mr. Flinders, with your high ideals and great independence of spirit, to be surprised at such strong and regrettable influence wielded over a man like my brother, but the Lestranges are well known to be, as a family, very susceptible to women. I regret your going extremely. I spoke to my brother for you, but I am sorry to say I found him quite intractable on that and many other subjects. You must write and let me know how you are getting on. Life is so difficult, isn’t it?”