“Did you ever hear about him at Oxford, Gertrude? He broke out once, and ate husks with the Gadarenes. You never knew. Of course—you never have known anything of him.” Resentment rose in Lady Valleys, that anyone should knew her son better than herself; but she lost it again looking at the little figure, and said, sighing: “Well?” Lady Casterley murmured: “Go away, child; I must think. You say he's to consult' Dennis? Do you know her address? Ask Barbara when you get back and telephone it to me. And at her daughter's kiss, she added grimly: “I shall live to see him in the saddle yet, though I am seventy-eight.” When the sound of her daughter's car had died away, she rang the bell. “If Lady Valleys rings up, Clifton, don't take the message, but call me.” And seeing that Clifton did not move she added sharply: “Well?” “There is no bad news of his young lordship's health, I hope?” “No.” “Forgive me, my lady, but I have had it on my mind for some time to ask you something.” And the old man raised his hand with a peculiar dignity, seeming to say: You will excuse me that for the moment I am a human being speaking to a human being. “The matter of his attachment,” he went on, “is known to me; it has given me acute anxiety, knowing his lordship as I do, and having heard him say something singular when he was here in July. I should be grateful if you would assure—me that there is to be no hitch in his career, my lady.” The expression on Lady Casterley's face was strangely compounded of surprise, kindliness, defence, and impatience as with a child. “Not if I can prevent it, Clifton,” she said shortly; “in fact, you need not concern yourself.” Clifton bowed. “Excuse me mentioning it, my lady;” a quiver ran over his face between its long white whiskers, “but his young lordship's career is more to me than my own.” When he had left her, Lady Casterley sat down in a little low chair—long she sat there by the empty hearth, till the daylight, was all gone. CHAPTER XX