“That’s the trouble,” Gaston said. “I don’t know who killed duelling in England, but behind it must have been a woman or a shopkeeper: sentimentalism, timidity, dead romance. What is patriotism but romance? Ideals is what they call it somewhere. I’ve lived in a land full of hard work and dangers, but also full of romance. What is the result? Why, a people off there whom you pity, and who don’t need pity. Romance? See: you only get square justice out of a wise autocrat, not out of your ‘twelve true men’; and duelling is the last decent relic of autocracy. Suppose the wronged man does get killed; that is all right: it wasn’t merely blood he was after, but the right to hit a man in the eye for a wrong done. What is all this hullaballoo--about saving human life? There’s as much interest--and duty--in dying as living, if you go the way your conscience tells you.” A couple of hours later, Gaston, after having seen to his horse, stood alone in the drawing-room with his grandfather and grandmother. As yet Lady Belward had spoken not half a dozen words to him. Sir William presently said to him: “Are you too tired to join us in the library?” “I’m as fresh as paint, sir,” was the reply. Lady Belward turned without a word, and slowly passed from the room. Gaston’s eyes followed the crippled figure, which yet had a rare dignity. He had a sudden impulse. He stepped to her and said with an almost boyish simplicity: “You are very tired; let me carry you--grandmother.” He could hear Sir William gasp a little as he laid a quick warm hand on hers that held the cane. She looked at him gravely, sadly, and then said: “I will take your arm, if you please.” He took the cane, and she put a hand towards him. He ran his strong arm around her waist with a little humouring laugh, her hand rested on his shoulder, and he timed his step to hers. Sir William was in an eddy of wonder--a strong head was “mazed.” He had looked for a different reception of this uncommon kinsman. How quickly had the new-comer conquered himself! And yet he had a slight strangeness of accent--not American, but something which seemed unusual. He did not reckon with a voice which, under cover of easy deliberation, had a convincing quality; with a manner of old-fashioned courtesy and stateliness. As Mrs. Gasgoyne had said to the rector, whose eyes had followed Gaston everywhere in the drawing-room: “My dear archdeacon, where did he get it? Why, he has lived most of his life with savages!” “Vandyke might have painted the man,” Lord Dargan had added. “Vandyke did paint him,” had put in Delia Gasgoyne from behind her mother. “How do you mean, Delia?” Mrs. Gasgoyne had added, looking curiously at her. “His picture hangs in the dining-room.” Then the picture had been discussed, and the girl’s eyes had followed Gaston--followed him until he had caught their glance. Without an introduction, he had come and dropped into conversation with her, till her mother cleverly interrupted.