And now his mother wanted him to go across to Ireland with them before his projected tour to India. And it was so beastly damp and dull in Ireland—so altogether unpleasant. Then there would be this tiresome “coming-out” dance of the girls; such a fatuously idiotic idea to have a preliminary “coming-out” at home, and then repeat it in grander measure in London. He didn’t mind going out of his way occasionally to please his mother, but to be bothered with Doreen and Kathleen was too much to expect. To his august personality they were so young, and crude, and foolish. He told himself he was bored to death with their aimless vapourings, and this time he must really follow his own inclinations, and let them go to Ireland without him—at which decision he got up leisurely, and prepared to stroll round to the club. But almost at the same moment, the door opened, and a soft voice said, “Are you here, Lawrence?” An antique Egyptian screen of beautiful workmanship hid the interior of the room from the door, and it was not until an intruder had passed it, he could tell if the room were occupied or not. “I am,” replied Lawrence casually; “but I am just going out.” Mrs Blake closed the door and advanced into the room, seating herself in the big chair he had vacated. “I want you to come to Ireland with us,” she began at once, with a note of persuasion in her voice. “There is so much you ought to see to on the estate, before you start off again travelling.” Lawrence remained standing on the hearthrug. “May I smoke!” he asked, with a mixture of indifference and courtesy that was entirely typical of him. His mother inclined her head, and looked anxiously into his face. It was, perhaps, noticeable that, in spite of his non-responsive manner, she in no wise appeared abashed, merely reiterating her request. But then who should know a man better than his mother, if she happen to have been blessed with discernment? With Lawrence and Mrs Blake this was emphatically the case, hence the direct opening of the subject, without any preliminary leading up. Mrs Blake knew when she came to the smoke-room that he had made up his mind not to go; she knew that he would be politely unresponsive and calmly difficult. As a matter of fact, he almost always was, but she had found that directness was better than any amount of circumvention, and, though he could not be driven, he could just occasionally be led. “Why do you want me to go?” he asked. “It only causes dissension, and you know more about the estate than I do.” “Perhaps. But I ought not. Do you never intend to take it in hand?” “I did not think of doing so, until most other things had failed.”