“Oh,” said Sir Giles, “about satisfied I don’t know, I don’t know; I can’t tell you at this moment, Gerald. She speaks fair, but then she’s on her promotion, don’t you see? Anyhow, she’s young, and perhaps she’ll learn; and she’s nice-looking--and speaks not so badly for a girl without education; not so badly, does she, Gerald? We’ll do; oh, I think we’ll do. She’ll look after Gervase, and keep him off me. And that’s a great thing, don’t you see? Though when I think what his mother would have said--Lord bless me, I tremble when I think what his mother would have said. She never would have borne it. She would have turned the house upside down and made everybody miserable; which makes me feel that being as it had to be, it’s perhaps better--better, Gerald, though it’s a hard thing to say, that his mother went first, went without knowing. You will say she suspected; and I believe she did suspect; she was a penetrating woman; but suspecting’s not so bad as knowing; and I’m--I’m almost glad, poor soul, that she’s gone. She would never have put up with it. And now this one may make something of Gervase--who knows? It is a kind of anxiety off my mind. Time for your train?” the old gentleman added cheerfully. “Well, thank you for your visit, my boy; I’ve enjoyed it--and come again, come soon again.” Sir Giles was as much delighted to be free of his visitor as he had been to welcome him to Greyshott. And it was evident that he was conforming his mind to the new state of affairs. Gerald had meant to appeal to his kindness for Margaret, but he had not patience or self-command enough to say anything. He had no thought of the anxieties that dwelt in the old man’s mind--the dreariness of his conclusion that it was better his old wife was gone: the forlorn endurance of a state of affairs which he had no power to prevent. A little more sympathy might have made Sir Giles’ endurance take a tragic aspect, the last refuge of a sanguine and simple spirit trying to be content with the hope that something might still be made of his only child. But Gerald Piercey only thought with mingled contempt and pity of the facile mind, and the drivel of old age, things entirely beyond his sympathy or thoughts. He had an interview of a more interesting kind with Margaret before he went away. “I wish you could leave as easily as I do,” he said. “So do I--but that would be impossible in any case. I have Osy to think of. I must not allow myself to be carried away by any sudden impulse--even if it were for nothing else, for my poor old uncle’s sake. He is fond of Osy. It might chill his poor old clouded life still more to miss the child.” “Oh, Uncle Giles! I think you may make your mind easy on that point. It’s age, I suppose, and illness. One thing is just as good as another to him.” “I am not quite of your opinion,” she said. “I think you are never quite of any one’s opinion except your own,” he retorted, quickly.