The hot-headed old lord stood a-straddle before his fireplace, and smiled grimly. How the blood of this house repeated itself! Here was this young fellow pacing up and down the room as though he were laying down the terms of a surrender. By the dogs, a handsome young fellow! Like his mother--with a trick or two of the father in him. He himself had thus prowled this room in like disgrace with the lord of the house years ago. What a while ago!... This lad’s father also--now this one! By the book, wonderful! The fact was that the old lord’s wilful admiration followed this proud lad with a sense of affection that was strange to him--the youth appealed to him more than did the more elaborate father. He had more of the beauty of the old house about him. “Noll, my lad,” said he, “I haven’t been listening over-well to what you have been saying--I’ve been thinking hard that you ought to have been my son.” Noll stopped in his walk, stopped in his talk--hesitated. He uttered an embarrassed laugh: “I have been apologizing, sir,” he said. “Have you?” growled Wyntwarde. “That is a relief to me--I thought you were ordering _me_ to apologize.” Noll shrugged his shoulders, and took to his pacing of the room again, silenced. The old lord watched him grimly, saying nothing. Noll suddenly halted, swung round, and faced him: “I am sorry, sir,” said he--“I ought to have rid you of my company before this. But I felt bound to make you what poor reparation I could for all your goodness to me. I did not write, because--a personal apology is always far more punishment to me than the written word. This has been a punishing task to me--I have dreaded it--loathed it. And yet, I fear, it has seemed but a lame and sorry reparation to you.... I will not fret you any longer. I am done.” Wyntwarde laughed: