It was characteristic of the understanding between these two that Patrick made no effort to “break the news,” or soften it in any way. He had always been prepared to face facts himself, and he had trained Sara in the same stern creed. So that now, when he quietly stated in plain language the thing which she had been inwardly dreading for some weeks--for, though silent on the matter, she had not failed to observe his appearance of increasing frailty--she took it like a thorough-bred. Her eyes dilated a little, but her voice was quite steady as she said: “You mean----” “I mean that before very long I shall put off this vile body.” He glanced down whimsically at his useless legs, cloaked beneath the inevitable rug. “After all,” he continued, “life--and death--are both fearfully interesting if one only goes to meet them instead of running away from them. Then they become bogies.” “And what shall I do . . . without you?” she said very low. “Aye.” He nodded. “It's worse for those who are left behind. I've been one of them, and I know. I remember--” He broke off short, his blue eyes dreaming. Presently he gave his shoulders the characteristic little shake which presaged the dismissal of some recalcitrant secret thought, and went on in quick, practical tones. “I don't want to go out leaving a lot of loose ends behind me--a tangle for you to unravel. So, since the fiat has gone forth--McPherson's a sound man and knows his job--let's face it together, little old pal. It will mean your leaving Barrow, you know,” he added tentatively. Sara nodded, her face rather white. “Yes, I know. I shan't care--then.” “Oh yes, you will”--with shrewd wisdom. “It will be an extra drop in the bucket, you'll find, when the time comes. Unfortunately, however, there's no getting round the entail, and when I go, my cousin, Major Durward, will reign in my stead.” “Why does the Court go to a Durward?” asked Sara listlessly. “Aren't there any Lovells to inherit?” “He is a Lovell. His father and mine were brothers, but his godfather, old Timothy Durward left him his property on condition that he adopted the name. Geoffrey Durward has a son called Timothy--after the old man.” “The Durwards have never been here since I came to live with you,” observed Sara thoughtfully. “Don't you care for him--your cousin, I mean?” “Geoffrey? Yes, he's a charming fellow, and he's been a rattling good soldier--got his D.S.O. in the South African campaign. But he and his wife--she was a Miss Eden--were stationed in India so many years, I rather lost touch with them. They came home when the Durward property fell in to them--about seven or eight years ago. She, I think”--reminiscently--“was one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen.” The shadow in Sara's eyes lifted for a moment. “Is that the reason you've always remained a bachelor?” she asked, twinkling.