“If he's beaten and hasn't something new and serious to concentrate himself on, he'll fret his heart out over that woman.” Lord Valleys meditated a little before replying. “I don't think that, Gertrude. He's got plenty of spirit.” “Of course! But it's a real passion. And, you know, he's not like most boys, who'll take what they can.” She said this rather wistfully. “I'm sorry for the woman,” mused Lord Valleys; “I really am.” “They say this rumour's done a lot of harm.” “Our influence is strong enough to survive that.” “It'll be a squeak; I wish I knew what he was going to do. Will you ask him?” “You're clearly the person to speak to him,” replied Lord Valleys. “I'm no hand at that sort of thing.” But Lady Valleys, with genuine discomfort, murmured: “My dear, I'm so nervous with Eustace. When he puts on that smile of his I'm done for, at once.” “This is obviously a woman's business; nobody like a mother.” “If it were only one of the others,” muttered Lady Valleys: “Eustace has that queer way of making you feel lumpy.” Lord Valleys looked at her askance. He had that kind of critical fastidiousness which a word will rouse into activity. Was she lumpy? The idea had never struck him. “Well, I'll do it, if I must,” sighed Lady Valleys. When after breakfast she entered Miltoun's 'den,' he was buckling on his spurs preparatory, to riding out to some of the remoter villages. Under the mask of the Apache chief, Bertie was standing, more inscrutable and neat than ever, in a perfectly tied cravatte, perfectly cut riding breeches, and boots worn and polished till a sooty glow shone through their natural russet. Not specially dandified in his usual dress, Bertie Caradoc would almost sooner have died than disgrace a horse. His eyes, the sharper because they had only half the space of the ordinary eye to glance from, at once took in the fact that his mother wished to be alone with 'old Miltoun,' and he discreetly left the room. That which disconcerted all who had dealings with Miltoun was the discovery made soon or late, that they could not be sure how anything would strike him. In his mind, as in his face, there was a certain regularity, and then—impossible to say exactly where—it would, shoot off and twist round a corner. This was the legacy no doubt of the hard-bitten individuality, which had brought to the front so many of his ancestors; for in Miltoun was the blood not only of the Caradocs and Fitz-Harolds, but of most other prominent families in the kingdom, all of whom, in those ages before money made the man, must have had a forbear conspicuous by reason of qualities, not always fine, but always poignant. And now, though Lady Valleys had the audacity of her physique, and was not customarily abashed, she began by speaking of politics, hoping her son would give her an opening. But he gave her none, and she grew nervous. At last, summoning all her coolness, she said: