"Social distinctions usually are," and Jim laid his arm on Petrie’s. He was growing tired of the discussion. Petrie felt that Jim wished to dismiss it, so he determined to play his trump card. This sacrifice of a splendid fellow was madness. Years from now, Jim would thank him that he had urged him to abandon this life to which he clung with his mistaken sense of right. "I think I am justified in violating my instructions," Petrie began. "You were not to know that Lady Kerhill accompanied me to this country." Jim’s hands tightened on Petrie. "Diana here?" Furtively he looked about him, as though fearful of seeing her. "In America?" He waited to be quickly reassured that there was no danger of her coming to the ranch. "I left them at Fort Duchesne—her ladyship and her cousin, Sir John Applegate. I was to bring you there and give you what was intended to be an agreeable surprise—but—" "Thank God you did not bring her here." Jim moved away, with his hands clinched behind him. Petrie followed as he urged. "She will be disappointed, deeply disappointed; she is still a young and beautiful woman." If there was temptation in the words, Jim did not betray it. Quite simply he said, "She must be." "With many admirers, it is only natural that she should marry again." And Jim answered, fully aware of the torturing methods used by the man who wished to conquer him, "It is inevitable." This time Petrie’s quiet voice rose in an almost impatient intolerance as he questioned, "And yet you feel—" But Jim stopped him. There was agony in his voice. "Petrie, don’t tempt me. I cannot go. My decision is made and nothing on earth can change it." He walked towards the house as he felt the sudden need of comfort. He wanted to feel his boy’s arms about him; that would be his solace. At the window he saw Hal, and a nod brought the child to him. As he watched him, Petrie said, more to himself than to Jim, "The sentimental man occasions more misery in this world than your downright brutally selfish one." To Jim he put the direct question, "Your decision is final?" "Final." "Too bad. Too bad. You are condemning yourself to a living death." "Oh no; I have my boy. Thank God, I have my boy." And in those words Petrie knew that the child meant more than all the rest of life to Jim. He knew the type—a type that prevails more especially among Englishmen, perhaps, in whom the need of fatherhood is strongly dominant. Almost prophetically the lawyer laid his hand on the head of the boy, who was standing on the bench playing with his father’s kerchief. "The future Earl of Kerhill." Jim answered, defiantly, "My boy is my boy." If Jim persisted in refusing to accept the position as the head of his house, then this child was the stake to play for, Petrie decided. "Well, think of him—of his future. He has the right to the education of a gentleman, to the surroundings of culture and refinement."