He and Maurice had never been friends. There was a gap of nearly ten years between them, and certain radical and profound differences of temperament. And these differences nature had expressed, with an entire absence of subtlety, in their physique--in the slender fairness and wholesomeness of Stephen, as contrasted with the sallowness, the stoop, the thin black hair, the furtive, excitable look of Maurice. "Getting on well with your new work?" he asked, as he took unwilling note of the half-consumed brandy and soda on the table, of the saucer of cigarette ends beside it, and the general untidiness and stuffiness of the room. "Not bad," said Maurice, resuming his cigarette. "What is it?" "An agency--one of these new phonographs--Yankee of course. I manage the office. A lot of cads--but I make 'em sit up." And he launched into boasting of his success in the business--the orders he had secured, the economies he had brought about in the office. Stephen found himself wondering meanwhile what kind of a business it could be that entrusted its affairs to Maurice. But he betrayed no scepticism, and the two talked in more or less brotherly fashion for a few minutes, till Stephen, with a look at his watch, declared that he must find his horse and go. "I thought you were only coming for the week-end," he said as he moved toward the door. "I got seedy--and took a week off. Besides, I found pater in such a stew." Stephen hesitated. "About the Rector?" Maurice nodded. "Pater is in an awful way about it. I've been trying to cheer him up. Meynell will be turned out, of course." "Probably," said Stephen gravely. "So shall I." "What'll you do?" "Become a preacher somewhere--under Meynell." The younger brother looked with a sort of inquisitive grin at the elder. "You're ready to put your money on him to that extent? Well, all I know is, father's dead set against him--and I've no use for him--never had!" "That's because you didn't know him," said Stephen briefly. "What did you ever have against him?" He looked sharply at his brother. The disagreeable idea crossed his mind that his father, whose weakness for Maurice he well knew, might have told the story to the lad. Maurice laughed, and pulled his scanty moustache as he turned away. "Oh! I don't know--we never hit it off. My fault, of course. Ta, ta." As Stephen rode away he was haunted for a few minutes by some disagreeable reminiscences of a school holiday when Maurice had been discovered drunk in one of the public-houses of the village by the Rector, who had firmly dug him out and walked him home. But this and other recollections, not dissimilar, soon passed away, under the steady assault of thoughts far more compelling.... * * * * * He took the bridle-path through Maudeley, and was presently aware, in a clearing of the wood, of the figure of Meynell in front of him.