He gave her the letters. She hadn’t known how much she had continued to be hopeful of the Staithley idea, not for herself, not for a Bradshaw who might live in Staithley Hall, but for him; and his admission that Staithley had been in his mind was evidence that he knew occultly the root cause of his derangement. These letters, he told her, were the answer to it all, and they could be nothing but the call to Staithley, an ultimatum which he meant to obey, of which he had the charming grace to admit that he was glad. Indeed, indeed, she would rejoice with him. He was going to Staithley, to work, to be cured by work and the tonic air of the moors of the poison London had dropped into his system. “This will finish off that old bogey,” he exulted and she exulted with him as she bent her eyes to read the letters. She read and saw with what disastrous optimism she had misunderstood. And he stood there aglow with happiness, expectant of her congratulations when this was not the beginning of new life but the death of hope! “Well?” he asked. “Well?” “It does seem to depend on you,” she hedged. “Uncle William would if he dared, eh? He’s as good as asking me to dare for him, and I’ll dare all right. I’ll wire that I’ll see him to-morrow afternoon. That’s soon enough. I’ll go by car. It’s a beastly railway journey.” “Aren’t you deciding very quickly, Rupert?” “I thought for a solid five minutes before I handed the letters across to you.” He was most indignant at her imputation of hastiness. “I was watching you. Five minutes! Not long to give to the consideration of a death sentence.” “A--what?” “Staithley. Staithley Mills without the Hepplestalls!” “Oh, they’ll survive it. This tiling’s a gift from God, and I’m not going to turn my back on the deity. It’s bad manners. Candidly, I’m surprised at you, Mary. You might be thinking there’s something to argue about. You might be sentimental for the Hepplestalls.” “No,” she said. “For a Hepplestall. For you. Rupert, I’ll leave the stage to-morrow if you will go and do your work at Staithley.” “Good Lord! Besides, aren’t you rather forgetting? Aren’t you forgetting you’re a Bradshaw?” “It is quite safe to forget that. I’m Mary Arden. Nobody knows me. It’s too long since I was anything but that.” “Oh, it wouldn’t do. Too risky altogether. Oh, never. Staithley’s the one place that’s absolutely barred.” “Rupert, you’re making me responsible. You’re using me as your excuse.” “Damn it, Mary, do you want us to live in Staithley?” “Yes.” “Well, I’m sorry. We can’t. I do you the justice to tell you I’ve never found you a capricious woman before. But it’s plain that this is one of the times when a man has to put his foot down on... on sentimentality and all that sort of thing.” “Your conscience was troubling you, Rupert.” “It was, I’ve admitted it. And this letter is my quittance. It washes conscience out. It closes the account.” “No. You’re still troubled.” “I’ll be hanged! Do you keep my conscience?”