They hardly spoke a word as they went; Sir James had looked up at Chris’s white strained face, and had put one question; and the other had nodded; and the hearts of both were full as they went together to the house. The father and son supped together alone that night in the private parlour, for no one had dared to ask Lady Torridon to postpone her usual supper hour; and as soon as that was over and Chris had told what he had seen, with many silences, they went into the oak-room where Lady Torridon and Mr. Carleton were awaiting them by the hearth with the Flemish tiles. The mother was sitting as usual in her tall chair, with her beautiful hands on her lap, and smiled with a genial contempt as she ran her eyes up and down her son’s figure. “The habit suits you very well, my son--in every way,” she added, looking at him curiously. Chris had greeted her an hour before at his arrival, so there was no ceremony of salute to be gone through now. He sat down by his father. “You have seen Ralph, I hear,” observed Lady Torridon. Chris did not know how much she knew, and simply assented. He had told his father everything. “I have some news,” she went on in an unusually talkative mood, “for you both. Ralph is to marry Beatrice Atherton--the girl you saw in his rooms, Christopher.” Sir James gave an exclamation and leant forward; and Chris tightened his lips. “She is a friend of Mr. More’s,” went on Lady Torridon, apparently unconscious of the sensation she was making, “but that is Ralph’s business, I suppose.” “Why did Ralph not write to me?” asked his father, with a touch of sternness. Lady Torridon answered him by a short pregnant silence, and then went on-- “I suppose he wished me to break it to you. It will not be for two or three years. She says she cannot leave Mrs. More for the present.” Chris’s brain was confused by the news, and yet it all seemed external to him. As he had ridden up to the house in the evening he had recognised for the first time how he no longer belonged to the place; his two years at Lewes had done their work, and he came to his home now not as a son but as a guest. He had even begun to perceive the difference after his quarrel with Ralph, for he had not been conscious of the same personal sting at his brother’s sins that he would have felt five years ago. And now this news, while it affected him, did not penetrate to the still sanctuary that he had hewn out of his heart during those months of discipline. But his father was roused. “He should have written to me,” he said sternly. “And, my wife, I will beg you to remember that I have a right to my son’s business.” Lady Torridon did not move or answer. He leaned back again, and passed his hand tenderly through Chris’s arm. * * * * *