“If I have not already yielded to one who is naturally more to me than anything, when she begged and entreated, it is because I feel this in a way you don't realize. I apologize for using the word comic just now, I should have said tragic. I'll enlighten Uncle Dennis, if that will comfort you; but this is not exactly a matter for anyone, except myself.” And, without another look or word, he went out. As the door closed, Barbara ran towards it; and, with a motion strangely like the wringing of hands, said: “Oh, dear! Oh! dear!” Then, turning away to a bookcase, she began to cry. This ebullition of feeling, surpassing even their own, came as a real shock to Lady and Lord Valleys, ignorant of how strung-up she had been before she entered the room. They had not seen Barbara cry since she was a tiny girl. And in face of her emotion any animus they might have shown her for having thrown Miltoun into Mrs. Noel's arms, now melted away. Lord Valleys, especially moved, went up to his daughter, and stood with her in that dark corner, saying nothing, but gently stroking her hand. Lady Valleys, who herself felt very much inclined to cry, went out of sight into the embrasure of the window. Barbara's sobbing was soon subdued. “It's his face,” she said: “And why? Why? It's so unnecessary!” Lord Valleys, continually twisting his moustache, muttered: “Exactly! He makes things for himself!” “Yes,” murmured Lady Valleys from the window, “he was always uncomfortable, like that. I remember him as a baby. Bertie never was.” And then the silence was only broken by the little angry sounds of Barbara blowing her nose. “I shall go and see mother,” said Lady Valleys, suddenly: “The boy's whole life may be ruined if we can't stop this. Are you coming, child?” But Barbara refused.