“Moreover,” continued Sir John, “I maintain that it is not too late.” There followed a silence; both men seemed to be wrapped in thought, the same thoughts with a difference of forty years of life in the method of thinking them. “I could not go to her with a lame story like that,” said Jack. “I told her all about Millicent.” “It is just a lame story like that that women understand,” answered Sir John. “When I was younger I thought as you do. I thought that a man must needs bring a clean slate to the woman he asks to be his wife. It is only his hands that must be clean. Women see deeper into these mistakes of ours than we do; they see the good of them where we only see the wound to our vanity. Sometimes one would almost be inclined to think that they prefer a few mistakes in the past because it makes the present surer. Their romance is a different thing from ours--it is a better thing, deeper and less selfish. They can wipe the slate clean and never look at it again. And the best of them--rather like the task.” Jack made no reply. Sir John Meredith's chin was resting on his vast necktie. He was looking with failing eyes into the fire. He spoke like one who was sure of himself--confident in his slowly accumulated store of that knowledge which is not written in books. “Will you oblige me?” he asked. Jack moved in his chair, but he made no answer. Sir John did not indeed expect it. He knew his son too well. “Will you,” he continued, “go out to Africa and take your lame story to Jocelyn just as it is?” There was a long silence. The old worn-out clock on the mantelpiece wheezed and struck six. “Yes,” answered Jack at length, “I will go.” Sir John nodded his head with a sigh of relief. All, indeed, comes to him who waits. “I have seen a good deal of life,” he said suddenly, arousing himself and sitting upright in the stiff-backed chair, “here and there in the world; and I have found that the happiest people are those who began by thinking that it was too late. The romance of youth is only fit to write about in books. It is too delicate a fabric for everyday use. It soon wears out or gets torn.” Jack did not seem to be listening. “But,” continued Sir John, “you must not waste time. If I may suggest it, you will do well to go at once.” “Yes,” answered Jack, “I will go in a month or so. I should like to see you in a better state of health before I leave you.” Sir John pulled himself together. He threw back his shoulders and stiffened his neck. “My health is excellent,” he replied sturdily. “Of course I am beginning to feel my years a little, but one must expect to do that after--eh--er--sixty. C'est la vie.” He made a little movement of the hands. “No,” he went on, “the sooner you go the better.” “I do not like leaving you,” persisted Jack. Sir John laughed rather testily.