In the oak-lined room, grown almost black with age, the candle-lights flickering in the heavy brass sconces, stood these three last descendants of a great family. The Earl’s brother, Dick Wynnegate, had run away with the daughter of an impecunious colonel. A few years later, while on service in India, he was shot, and the young wife lived only to bring the tiny boy Jim home and to leave him with her husband’s brother. Even then the fortunes of the Wynnegates were somewhat impaired, but the old Earl had taken the boy to his heart, and on his death had confided him to his wife to share their fortune with his son Henry. His last words were, "Be good to poor Dick’s boy." The estates were entailed, so no provision could be made by him for Jim, but Lady Kerhill, in her cold, just fashion, had tried to make Dick’s boy happy. Deep in his heart, Jim remembered the years that followed; remembered the selfish domination of the elder boy; remembered the blind adoration of his aunt for her son, the bearer of the torch, who was to carry on the golden light of the house of Kerhill. In the Anglo-Saxon idolatry of the Countess of Kerhill for the male of the family, all the old traditions and beliefs were justified. Her boy—-the man-child who was to be the head of the house—was her obsession. The tiny, flower-like girl who came shortly before her husband’s death, learned soon to turn to Cousin Jim for comfort when her brother carelessly crushed her little joys, as he selfishly planned and fought for his own gratification. Instinctively Jim watched his aunt, who, at Henry’s word, had started to move towards him. "Of course, if you care to go and fetch Diana, I shall be happy," Lady Kerhill said. Henry lounged back in his chair. "Well, if I forget, Jim can remember for me—eh, Jim?" Lady Kerhill’s face became grave as she leaned over Henry’s chair and closely studied the flushed face. She found there confirmation of the fear that had preyed on her mind for the past half-hour. "Oh, Henry, you’ve broken your word," she whispered. The reckless challenge of Henry’s dark eyes as he moved impatiently in his chair was his only answer. Then in a burst of ill-concealed resentment he rose: "Don’t nag, mother." He swayed slightly as he crossed to the open casement. As Jim turned to him, he sullenly pushed him aside. "And don’t you preach," he muttered, as he started for the garden. Jim quickly caught him by the shoulder, "Pull yourself together, Henry. It’s eight o’clock and the people are gathering in the park." Henry’s only reply was a snarl as he disappeared in the shadow of the trees.