‘He didn’t repent at all till Desmond talked to him,’ said Dulcie, glad to get in a word in favour of her sweetheart. ‘So you’ve been giving Blake a lesson in manners, eh?’ said the old man. ‘And what did you say to him, and how did he take it?’ Desmond recounted the interview. ‘He took it like mother’s milk, sir. Sure he knew he was in the wrong. He’s not a bad fellow, if you know how to humour him.’ Peebles coughed behind his hand a dubious note, and Kilpatrick, catching the old man’s eye, said with something of his former testiness: ‘Well, well, that will do--go and eat your dinner. Peebles, wait on Lady Dulcie.’ The two young people and the old servitor left the room together, and Kilpatrick, sinking back into the seat he had quitted, sat for some time plunged in silent thought. Conseltine, leaning against the high, old-fashioned mantelpiece, took advantage of the shadow with which the room was filled, and of his brother’s abstraction, to watch him narrowly. The old lord sighed once or twice, and gave one or two movements of impatience, and once the sound of a broken murmur reached Conseltine’s ear, in which he distinguished only the word ‘Moya.’ ‘Dick,’ said Kilpatrick, suddenly turning towards him, ‘I must provide at once for Desmond--I simply must do it--I should be a cad if I didn’t.’ The intently watchful look which Conseltine’s face had worn was replaced by his general expression of suavity as he came forward into the ray of light which was yet coming through the great oriel window. ‘My dear Henry,’ he said smoothly, ‘you are perfectly right. ’Tis the dictate of nature and justice--it does you credit.’ Kilpatrick, who was anything but a fool, looked at his brother with a curious, quick, questioning glance. Conseltine replied to it as if to a speech. ‘I know, my dear Henry, I know! You’ve been thinking me grasping, and avaricious, and heartless, all this time, now, haven’t you? And why? Just because I’ve felt it my duty, as your brother and Richard’s father, to safeguard the interests of the family. The title goes to Richard, anyhow; and ’tis but common-sense, as you said just now yourself, that the bulk of the property should go with it. ’Tis mighty little I can leave him, and a lord without soil to his foot or a guinea in his pocket would be a queer spectacle, wouldn’t he? ’Tis not Lord Kilpatrick, anyhow, that shall be seen in that predicament; but you can provide for Desmond, too. You can give him all he has a right to expect, and still leave enough for Richard.’ The argument was unanswerable, the manner and voice with which it was put were suave, persuasive, honest; but Kilpatrick’s only answer was to shoot another quick, questioning glance at his brother’s face, and to tap the carpet with his foot. ‘What would you call a proper provision?’ he asked, after an interval of silence.