How could he reply to this that the training which had been good enough for his father and his uncles was not good enough for him? Somewhere, he felt certain there were flaws to be found and that Sir Philip was rather a special pleader than a candid truth-teller, but he impressed, and Rupert despised himself for remaining obstinately suspicious of his father’s sincerity. “And you’re a Hepplestall. That is not to be questioned, is it, Rupert? In the present and in the future, in the small things and the large, that is not to be questioned.” It was now or never for his protest. Mentally he wriggled like a kitten held under water by some callous child and as desperately. He would drown if he could not reach the aid of two life-buoys, courage to outface Sir Philip and wits to put words to his thoughts. “No, sir, that is not to be questioned,” he heard himself, unexpectedly, say, and Sir Philip’s warm handshake sealed the bargain. He had not meant to say it; he did not mean to stand by what he had said, but his hand responded heartily to his father’s and his eye met Sir Philip’s gaze with the charming smile of frank, ingenuous youth. He was thinking that six years were a long time and that there were men who had come to great honor after they had broken vows. CHAPTER II--THE VOICE FROM THE STREET THE room held a grand piano, a great fire and two men of fifty who were playing chess. The stout, bullet-headed man with the mustache which did not conceal the firmness of his mouth was Tom Bradshaw; the lean man with the goatee beard, who wore spectacles, was Walter Pate. Both were autocrats in their way. Tom ran the Spinners’ Union and was M. P. in his spare time, Walter ran music in Staithley Bridge and had no spare time except, on rare occasions, for chess. Tom made a move. “That’s done you, you beggar,” he said, gleefully rising and filling a pipe. Walter’s fine hand flickered uncertainly over the board. He saw defeat ahead. “If I weren’t a poor man, I’d have the law on you,” he said. “You can’t play chess, Walter. It’s a question of brain.” Pate shied the matches at him, and Tom sat at the piano and picked out a tune with one hand. “Stop it!” cried Walter. “On terms,” said Tom. “I hate you,” said Walter. “Come away.” “The terms are the Meistersinger,” said Tom. “On a piano! You’re a Goth.” “No. I’m paying you a compliment you deserve. Get at it.” Walter got. Young Rupert in his Slough of Despond had been too busy with himself to wonder why Sir Philip had corrected him when he described Tom Bradshaw as a “beast.”