Only from Betty, young and romantic, yet possessed of a woman’s intuitive power of understanding others, could Clement look for any sympathy. And even Betty doubted while she loved—for she had also that other attribute of woman, a basis of sound common-sense. She admired her father. She saw more clearly than Clement what he had done for them and to what he was raising them. And she could not but grieve that Clement was not more like him, that Clement could not fall in with his wishes and devote himself to the attainment of the end for which the elder man had worked. She could enter into the father’s disappointment as well as into the son’s distaste. Meanwhile Clement, dreaming now of a girl’s face, now of a new drill which he had seen that morning, now of the passing sights and sounds which would have escaped nine men out of ten but had a meaning for him, drew near to the town. He topped the last eminence, he rode under the ancient oak, whence, tradition had it, a famous Welshman had watched the wreck of his fortunes on a pitched field. Finally he saw, rising from the river before him, the amphitheatre of dim lights that was the town. Descending he crossed the bridge. He sighed as he did so. For to him to pass from the silent lands and to enter the brawling streets where apprentices were putting up the shutters and beggars were raking among heaps of market garbage was to fall half way from the clouds. To right and left the inns were roaring drunken choruses, drabs stood in the mouths of the alleys—dubbed in Aldersbury “shuts”—tradesmen were hastening to wet their profits at the Crown or the Gullet. When at last he heard the house door clang behind him, and breathed the confined air of the bank, redolent for him of ledgers and day-books, the fall was complete. He reached the earth. If he had not done so, his sister’s face when he entered the dining-room would have brought him to his level. “My eye and Betty Martin!” she said. “But you’ve done it now, my lad!” “What’s the matter?” “Father will tell you that. He’s in his room and as black as thunder. He came home by the mail at three—Sir Charles waiting, Mr. Acherley waiting, the bank full, no Clement! You are in for it. You are to go to him the moment you come in.” He looked longingly at the table where supper awaited him. “What did he say?” he asked. “He said all I have said and d—n besides. It’s no good looking at the table, my lad. You must see him first and then I’ll give you your supper.” “All right!” he replied, and he turned to the door with something of a swagger.