“Then I don’t mind feeling an ass,” said Rupert, and his father savored the compliment as Rupert left the room. It implied that the boy had a wholesome respect for him, while, as to his own diplomacy, “The recording angel,” he said, turning to his wife, “will dip in invisible ink.” Lady Hepplestall touched his shoulder affectionately, and left him to his breakfast-table study of the market reports. The baronetcy was comparatively new. Any time these fifty years the Hepplestalls could have had it by lifting a finger in the right room; and they had had access to that room. But titles, especially as the Victorian shower of honors culminated in “Jubilee Knights,” seemed vulgar things, and Sir Philip consented to take one only when it seemed necessary that he should consent, after much pressure from his brothers. It seemed necessary in 1905 and the Hepplestall baronetcy, included amongst the Resignation Honors conferred by the late Balfour administration, was a symbol of the defeat of Joseph Chamberlain and “Tariff Reform.” It advertised the soundness of the Unionist Party, even in the thick of the great landslide of Liberalism, it registered the close of the liaison with Protection. If Hepplestall of Lancashire, Unionist and Free Trader, accepted a baronetcy from the outgoing Government, the sign was clear for all to read; it could mean only that Hepplestall had received assurances that the Party was going to be good, to avoid the horrific pitfalls of “Tariff Reform.” Lancashire could breathe again and Sir Philip, sacrificing much, immolated his inclinations on the twin altars of Free Trade and the Party. If ever man became baronet _pour le bon motif_, it was Sir Philip Hepplestall. A gesture, but a gallant one. Rupert spoke many things aloud in lurid English to his reflection in his mirror; the banality of having so carefully studied his facial expressions while not perceiving the absence of a tie struck him as pluperfect, but his vituperative language was, happily, adequate to the occasion and he successful relieved his feelings. One combination of words, indeed, struck him as inspired and he was occupied in committing it to memory as he went downstairs to Sir Philip. “I feel like the kid who had too much cake and when they told him he’d be ill, he said it was worth it,” he announced. “It was worth it to forget my tie.” “In what way in particular?” asked Sir Philip, mentally saluting a spirited recovery. “Will you ask me that next time I beat you at golf and words fail you? I’ve got the words.”