The meeting with George at Mrs. Ward's had touched the old man nearly. He had never set eyes on Percy's son before, and had no idea that the young fellow was so handsome and clever. Derrington felt that he could take some pride in George, as a man who would not permit himself to be bullied. He had as strong a will as his grandfather, and the older man respected him. Moreover, George's refusal to accept an income when he took a feigned name, and his determined fight for his birthright, pleased the despot. But for his pride and hatred of the father, Derrington might have acknowledged the marriage. He knew in his own mind that such a marriage had taken place, and that George was legitimate, but he did not know where the ceremony had been celebrated. The sole evidence he possessed was a letter, written by Percy from Paris, stating that he had married Rosina Lockwood. Derrington at the time accepted the fact, and had never thought of inquiring about details from his son, and of course when Percy died it was too late. Mrs. Jersey knew, and Mrs. Jersey had made use of her knowledge, but she never told Derrington anything. Had she done so, her hold over him might have waxed feeble, although, owing to her knowledge, and to the old man's determination not to acknowledge George, it could not be done away with altogether. The library in Derrington House was a vast and splendid apartment with a magnificent collection of books. Its owner, driven back on himself by his misanthropic detestation of his species, and the dislike his fellow-men had for him, read a great deal. Sometimes he wrote articles for the quarterlies, principally on political questions. He went out into society in spite of his age, out of sheer contrariety and not because he enjoyed himself. Like Vespasian, he was determined to die standing, and showed himself at several great houses, at race-meetings, at Hurlingham, and sometimes in the House. His movements were carefully chronicled in the _Morning Post_, and he took care to let his friends know that he was still alive. For the rest, he sat in his library reading, or writing his memoirs. These he had arranged to have published after his death, and there were many families who would have given much money to have seen them behind the fire. Derrington had known every one worth knowing for the last half-century, and had as bitter a pen as he had a tongue. Also, he knew many secrets of diplomacy. So it may be guessed that many great families did not look forward to the publication of these memoirs with particular pleasure. Derrington knew this, and chuckled grimly, much as Heine did in the like case.