“My father’s a rotter,” he said. “Never cared for anything. No shot to speak of. He can sit on a horse all right. Had to, in South America and Morocco and all those places. But he never really cared about it, I don’t believe. Why, he’d rather look at a picture than a thoroughbred any day!” At this moment Sir Donald wandered into the room, with his hands behind his thin back, and his eyes searching the walls. The Duke possessed a splendid collection of pictures. “There he is!” said Leo, gruffly. “He doesn’t see us. Go and tell him I’m here.” “Why? he might go out again if we keep mum.” “But I want to speak to him. Sir Donald! Sir Donald!” Sir Donald turned round at the second summons and came towards them, looking rather embarrassed. “Hulloa, pater!” said Leo. Sir Donald nodded to his son with a conscientious effort to seem familiar and genial. “Hulloa!” he rejoined in a hollow voice. “Your boy has been instructing me in American mysteries,” said Lady Holme. “Do take me to the ballroom, Sir Donald.” Leo Ulford’s good humour returned as abruptly as it had departed. Her glance at him, as she spoke, had seemed to hint at a secret understanding between them in which no one--certainly not his father--was included. “Pater can tell you all about the pictures,” he said, with a comfortable assurance, which he did not strive to disguise, that she would be supremely bored. He stared at her hard, gave a short laugh, and lounged away. When he had gone, Sir Donald still seemed embarrassed. He looked at Lady Holme apologetically, and in his faded eyes she saw an expression that reminded her of Lady Cardington. It was surely old age asking forgiveness for its existence. She did not feel much pity for it, but with the woman of the world’s natural instinct to smooth rough places--especially for a man--she began to devote herself to cheering Sir Donald up, as they slowly made their way through room after room towards the distant sound of the music. “I hear you’ve been plunging!” she began gaily. Sir Donald looked vague. “I’m afraid I scarcely--” “Forgive me. I catch slang from my husband. He’s ruining my English. I mean that I hear you’ve been investing--shall I say your romance?--in a wonderful place abroad, with a fascinating name. I hope you’ll get enormous interest.” A faint colour, it was like the ghost of a blush, rose in Sir Donald’s withered cheeks. “Ah, Mr. Carey--” He checked himself abruptly, remembering whet he had heard from Robin Pierce. “No, Mr. Pierce was my informant. He knows your place and says it’s too wonderful. I adore the name.” “Casa Felice. You would not advise me to change it, then?” “Change it! Why?” “Well, I--one should not, perhaps, insist beforehand that one is going to have happiness, which must always lie on the knees of the gods.” “Oh, I believe in defiance.”