As I looked down the stairs, Crawleigh and Bertrand were finishing their altercation. I heard Raymond telling them that it was time for old men to be in bed; and the phrase reminded me of my meeting with Saltash. In every sense of the term, they were old men, no longer able to hold their own against the young vigour of Saltash’s recruits; in any struggle of class with class, the material ammunition had passed from their hands. Their prestige was weakening before the pressure of those who excelled them in everything but length of tradition; and that tradition was now being cut short. “I suppose you can call yourself a radical and still believe in the value of a good strain in breeding,” I said. “That hard-worked creature ‘the historian of the future’ will _have_ to say, I suppose, that the people of this country carried a heavier burden than any other in the war? I _think_ he’ll say that, of all our people, those who carried the heaviest burden were the leaders. In fighting, in directing, in paying . . . And in being killed: that’s why there are so few of them here to-night. We shall be the poorer if we lose that strain.” “We’ll hope there are still enough of them left to carry it on,” said O’Rane. “The next few years will be a race; there’ll be a fight against time, to spread the tradition before the people who maintain it are swallowed up.” We talked at random until Sonia came to collect him for another party. “I’m sorry we couldn’t bring Eric,” I heard him say to Barbara on leaving. “Some friend of his had a first night; and he’d promised to look in.” “Did he say if he was coming on?,” asked Barbara. “I should think it depends on the time. There was some talk about a supper-party afterwards.” “Then I don’t suppose he will,” she answered with the composure of complete indifference. “Good-night, David. Good-night, Sonia.” When we were by ourselves, I sent the servants to bed; and we sat for half-an-hour discussing the party. “Half-past one,” she sighed at last. “Nobody _can_ be coming now.” “If any one does,” I said, “he’ll find an excellent doorstep to sit on. Come to bed, Babs.” “I must write one letter first. You go on and turn out the lights. If you see my torch, you might put it on the hall-table.” I chose a book and went to my room. Only when I was in bed did I discover that I had brought the wrong book; and, on going downstairs again, I saw the lights in the hall blazing. Then, as I reached the drawing-room, I caught sight of Barbara, seated in a high-backed chair at the stair-head. At first I thought she was asleep; then I saw that she was staring through the hall to the front door. “Is anything the matter?” I asked. “He _can’t_ be coming now,” she answered. “Who? Eric?”