“The eldest boy darted across the room at his father, but Rawdon warded him off with the chair. “‘Keep the brat off me!’ he cried to Ruth. ‘I won’t be answerable, I’ll do him a mischief.’ “He cried suddenly,— “‘This is what I’ll do if you try to lay hands on me, you and all your brood.’ “He was near the window, he took the pots of geranium one by one off the sill, crying, ‘This! and this! and this!’ and flung them with all possible violence on the tiled floor, where the brittle terra-cotta smashed into fragments, and the plants rolled with a scattering of earth under the furniture. “‘I’ll do that with your heads,’ he said savagely. “His eye fell on the cage of mice, left standing exposed on the window-sill. At the sight of these his rage redoubled. “‘_He_ gave you these,’ he shouted, and hurled the cage from him into the farthest corner of the room. “He was left quivering in the midst of his devastation, quivering, panting, like some slim, wild animal at bay. “The storm that had swept across him was too much for his nerves; the expression on his face changed; he sank down in the corner, letting the chair fall, and hiding his face in his hands. “‘There, it’s over,’ he wailed, ‘don’t be afraid, Ruth, I won’t touch you. Only let me go away now; it’s this life has done for me. I can’t live with you. You can keep the children, you can keep the farm; I’m going away, right away, where you’ll never hear of me again. Only let me go.’ “It seemed to be his dominating idea. “She moved across to him, but he leaped up and to one side before she could touch him. “‘Keep away!’ he cried warningly. “He reached the door; paused there one brief, intense moment. “‘You’ll hear from me from London,’ he uttered. “He seemed to her exactly like a swift animal, scared and untamed, checked for one instant in its flight. “‘I’ll never trouble you more.’ “Then he was gone; had he bounded away? had he flown? she could not have said, she could only remain pressed against the wall, the children crying, and her hands clasped over her heart. * * * * * “There, what do you think of that for the story of a Kentish farm-house? What a train of dynamite, isn’t it, laid in the arena of Cadiz? What a heritage to transmit even to the third generation! You don’t believe it? I thought you wouldn’t. But it is true. “Ruth told me the whole of this amazing story in a low voice, playing all the while with her two faded roses. She showed me a lawyer’s letter which she had received next day, formalising the agreement about the farm, stipulating that she should pay rent; all couched in cold, business-like terms. ‘Our client, Rawdon Westmacott, Esq.,’ that savage, half-crazed, screaming creature that had smashed the flower-pots only a week before.... “‘I see you’ve replaced the geraniums,’ I said rather irrelevantly. “‘Yes.’ “‘What about the mice?’ “‘They all died.’ “So that chapter was closed?