She did not reply. He turned to his grandfather. “There is no other way,” said the old man, sternly. Then in a voice almost shrill with pain and indignation, he cried out as he had never done in his life: “Nothing, nothing, nothing but disgrace! My God in heaven! a lion-tamer--a gipsy! An honourable name dragged through the mire! Go back,” he said grandly; “go back to the woman and her lions--savages, savages, savages!” “Savages after the manner of our forefathers,” Gaston answered quietly. “The first Gaston showed us the way. His wife was a strolling player’s daughter. Good-bye, sir.” Lady Belward’s face was in her hands. “Good-bye-grandmother,” he said at the door, and then he was gone. At the outer door the old housekeeper stepped forward, her gloomy face most agitated. “Oh, sir, oh, sir, you will come back again? Oh, don’t go like your father!” He suddenly threw an arm about her shoulder, and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll come back--yes I’ll come back here--if I can. Good-bye, Hovey.” In the library Sir William and Lady Belward sat silent for a time. Presently Sir William rose, and walked up and down. He paused at last, and said, in a strange, hesitating voice, his hands chafing each other: “I forgot myself, my dear. I fear I was violent. I would like to ask his pardon. Ah, yes, yes!” Then he sat down and took her hand, and held it long in the silence. “It all feels so empty--so empty,” she said at last, as the tower-clock struck hollow on the air. The old man could not reply, but he drew her close to him, and Hovey, from the door, saw his tears dropping on her white hair. Gaston went to Manchester Square. He half dreaded a meeting with Alice, and yet he wished it. He did not find her. She had gone to Paris with her uncle, the servant said. He got their address. There was little left to do but to avoid reporters, two of whom almost forced themselves in upon him. He was to go back to Douarnenez by the little boat that brought him, and at seven o’clock in the morning he watched the mists of England recede. He chanced to put his hand into a light overcoat which he had got at his chambers before he started. He drew out a paper, the one discovered in the solicitor’s office in London. It was an ancient deed of entail of the property, drawn by Sir Gaston Belward, which, through being lost, was never put into force. He was not sure that it had value. If it had, all chance of the estate was gone for him; it would be his uncle’s. Well, what did it matter? Yes, it did matter: Andree! For her? No, not for her. He would play straight. He would take his future as it came: he would not drop this paper into the water. He smiled bitterly, got an envelope at a publichouse on the quay, wrote a few words in pencil on the document, and in a few moments it was on its way to Sir William Belward, who when he received it said: “Worthless, quite worthless, but he has an honest mind--an honest mind!”