When the servant came, it was Jack who gave the orders, and the butler listened to them with a sort of enthusiasm. When he had closed the door behind him he pulled down his waistcoat with a jerk, and as he walked downstairs he muttered “Thank 'eaven!” twice, and wiped away a tear from his bibulous eye. “What have you been doing with yourself since I saw you?” inquired Sir John conversationally when the door was closed. “I have been out to India--merely for the voyage. I went with Oscard, who is out there still, after big-game.” Sir John Meredith nodded. “I like that man,” he said, “he is tough. I like tough men. He wrote me a letter before he went away. It was the letter of--one gentleman to another. Is he going to spend the rest of his life 'after big-game'?” Jack laughed. “It seems rather like it. He is cut out for that sort of life. He is too big for narrow streets and cramped houses.” “And matrimony?” “Yes--and matrimony.” Sir John was leaning forward in his chair, his two withered hands clasped on his knees. “You know,” he said slowly, blinking at the fire, “he cared for that girl--more than you did, my boy.” “Yes,” answered Jack softly. Sir John looked towards him, but he said nothing. His attitude was interrogatory. There were a thousand questions in the turn of his head, questions which one gentleman could not ask another. Jack met his gaze. They were still wonderfully alike, these two men, though one was in his prime while the other was infirm. On each face there was the stamp of a long-drawn, silent pride; each was a type of those haughty conquerors who stepped, mail-clad, on our shore eight hundred years ago. Form and feature, mind and heart, had been handed down from father to son, as great types are. “One may have the right feeling and bestow it by mistake on the wrong person,” said Jack. Sir John's fingers were at his lips. “Yes,” he said rather indistinctly, “while the right person is waiting for it.” Jack looked up sharply, as if he either had not heard or did not understand. “While the right person is waiting for it,” repeated Sir John deliberately. “The right person--?” “Jocelyn Gordon,” exclaimed Sir John, “is the right person.” Jack shrugged his shoulders and leant back so that the firelight did not shine upon his face. “So I found out eighteen months ago,” he said, “when it was too late.” “There is no such thing as too late for that,” said Sir John in his great wisdom. “Even if you were both quite old it would not be too late. I have known it for longer than you. I found it out two years ago.” Jack looked across the room into the keen, worldly-wise old face. “How?” he inquired. “From her. I found it out the moment she mentioned your name. I conducted the conversation in such a manner that she had frequently to say it, and whenever your name crossed her lips she--gave herself away.” Jack shook his head with an incredulous smile.