Three minutes later, Jack had found his way up and Milly had effaced herself discreetly. This morning that warrior was not quite the serenely humorous self whom his friends found so engaging. Recent events had annoyed him, disquieted him, upset him generally, and the previous afternoon they had culminated in a long and unsatisfactory interview at Bridport House. Those skilled in the signs might have told, from the young man’s manner, that he had cast himself for a big thinking part. This morning he was “all out” for diplomacy. He would like Mary to know that his back was to the wall, and that he must be able to count on her implicitly in the stern fight ahead; but the crux of the problem was, and for that reason he felt such a great need of cunning, if he let her know the full force and depth of the opposition the effect upon her might be the reverse of what he intended. Even apart from the stab to her pride, she was quite likely to make it a pretext for further quixotism. Therefore, Mr. John Dinneford had decided to walk very delicately indeed this morning. His Grace, it appeared, had asked to see the lady in the case. Jack, however, scenting peril in the request, had by no means consented lightly to that. Diplomacy, assuming a very large D, had promptly assured him that his kinsman and fiancée were far too much birds of a feather; their method of looking at large issues was ominously alike. Mary had developed what Jack called “the Aunt Sanderson viewpoint” to an alarming degree. Aunt Sanderson, no doubt, had acquired it in the first place from the fountain head; its authenticity therefore made it the more perilous. “Uncle Albert sends his compliments and hopes you’ll be kind enough to go and see him.” The statement was made so casually that it was felt to be a masterpiece of the non-committal. He would defy anyone to tell from his tone how he had fought the old wretch, how he had tried to outwit him, how he had done his damnedest to short-circuit a most mischievous resolve. “Now.” The diplomatist took her boldly by a very fine pair of shoulders, and so made a violent end of the pause which had followed the important announcement. “Whatever you do, be careful not to give away the whole position. There’s a cunning old fox to deal with, and if he finds the weak spot, we’re done.” “You mean he thinks as I do?” “I don’t say he does exactly, but, of course, he may. When you come to Bridport House, you are up against all sorts of crassness.” “Or common sense, whichever you choose to call it,” said the troubled Mary. “Don’t you go playing for them.” He shook the fine shoulders in a masterful colonial manner. “If you do, I’ll never forgive you. Bridport House can be trusted to take very good care of itself. We’ve got to keep our own end going. If we have really made up our minds to get married, no one has a right to prevent us, and it’s up to you to let his Grace know that.”