Rupert had no sophistical conclusions to draw from a general situation of which he knew nothing; it was clear to him that they had passed the turning-point and were safely on the tack for home. There would be any amount of detail to be settled, but the supreme issue was decided; William and he were at one, and Hepplestal’s was to be sold! No wonder he had hectored a little. He had had to rout William and not only William but the belated hesitations in himself born of his dismay at the formidable size of Hepplestal’s; and success had justified his methods. In here, the massiveness of the mills did not oppress and a modern man whose thinking was not confused by the portraits of his ancestors could see this thing singly, stripped of sentiment, in terms of pounds, shillings and pence. If Staithley Mills were large, so would be the figure William was to declare; if the tradition was fine, it was commutable into the greater number of thousands. That was sanity, anything else was muddled-headedness, and he awaited William’s scratches on paper as one who has swept away obfuscating side-issues and concentrates on essentials. “It makes a very considerable total, Rupert,” said William gravely. “We’ve got used to considerable totals, haven’t we? I don’t suppose it’s more than a day’s cost of the war.” “Then I’ve a surprise for you,” said William. “Yes?” asked Rupert with an eager anticipation which was hardly due to greed so much as to impatience to learn what fabulous key to the pageant of life was to be his to turn. Let it only be big enough and he had no doubt that it would dazzle Mary out of her queer, old-fashioned timidities. He stood upon his peak in Darien. “Yes,” he asked again as William paused, not because he had a sense of the dramatic but because he was nervous. There was a knock at the door, apologetic if ever knock apologized, and an embarrassed henchman of the Service came in upon William’s indignant response. “I wouldn’t dream of disturbing you, sir, but Lady Hepplestall is here.” “My wife?” cried Rupert, hoping against hope that it was his mother. “Yes, Sir Rupert, and Bradshaw’s with her. Mr. Bradshaw of the spinners. The M. P. He... well, sir, he put it that he knew you didn’t want to be interrupted and he’s come to interrupt.” “Thank you,” said William. “We will not keep Lady Hepplestall waiting.” William was very dignified as he said the only possible thing, and he hoped Rupert would perceive in his dignity a reproach to his own exhibition of crude amazement before an understrapper. Rupert was ludicrously like a boy caught in the act of robbing an orchard, and William’s eye was alight as he contrasted this crestfallen Rupert with the Rupert who had declared roundly that “Wives don’t count in this.” William had hopes of Mary, who was shown in with Tom before Rupert had time to attempt an explanation of her presence to his uncle.