“Oh, phut!” Guy smiled like a boy. “You don’t catch me interfering with any of my boy’s friendships, I can tell you. Not that I’ve ever really thought about these things before. One just goes driving along never giving these things a thought until one day we all go off the deep end just because we never have given them a thought. I fancy Hilary’s right about this father and child business. I mean, people have been having sons, I suppose, since the year one, and the relation between them is still a mess. In this century, for instance, all we people have been bucking no end about being brotherly with our sons, as though being a fat-headed brother was any good if you don’t understand what the cub is driving at. I just thought of that this very moment. For instance, my boy told me the other day that Kipling wrote true-blue miracles calculated to increase the blood-pressure in men who were too old to fight. I gave him a thrashing with the gloves for his infernal cheek, especially as he must have got it out of some book, for the boy hasn’t what you could call a brain, which is just as well, for it will keep him from going over to Labour. But, after all, our cubs can’t make more of a mess of everything than we and our fathers have done. That’s the point to hang on to.” “Good God, man!” snapped Hilary. “I’ve been saying that to you for twenty years, and you’ve----” “That’s right, Hilary,” Guy grinned. “But you’ve got a way of saying things....” Iris was looking from one to the other of us. It was as though she was in a dream, looking at faces in a dream. Soft she was now, soft and white and small. And her eyes were clouds of blue mist. She stared at Sir Maurice, who stood fidgeting with the paper-knife. “Maurice,” she whispered, “good-bye.” Sharply he looked up from the paper-knife. He flipped the paper-knife on to the card-table. Then I saw that Sir Maurice hated his ancient enemy. “Good-bye, Iris,” he said. “But you must not expect me to wish you happiness. You have taken from me my only son.” “Maurice,” she said desperately, “isn’t that special pleading? Haven’t you any pity, any understanding, of what I have been through?” “Understanding! Yes, I have understanding, Iris. But I can’t let it stretch across the wide gulf that should separate you from my son.” “But you made the gulf, Maurice! You, you!” She seemed passionately to want his understanding now! “I!” cried Sir Maurice. “Good God, woman, I merely parted a boy and a girl. But you could have found each other again--if you hadn’t been you! _I_ made the gulf! Iris, did I murder Boy Fenwick!” “Maurice, you take that back!” “Hilary, never mind.” It was a faint, husky whisper. “Just don’t mind, Hilary.” She was staring at Sir Maurice as at a snake. She was calm. “Did you say murder, Sir Maurice? Murder?”