He appeared a few minutes afterwards fresh from his ride, glowing with good-humour and contentment.  But the sight of Thresk surprised him.

“Hulloa,” he cried.  “Good-morning.  I thought you were going to catch the eight forty-five.”

“I felt lazy,” answered Thresk.  “I sent off some telegrams to put off my engagements.”

“Good,” said Dick, and he sat down at the breakfast-table.  As he poured out a cup of tea, Thresk said: 

“I think I heard you were over thirty.”

“Yes.”

“Thirty’s a good age,” said Thresk.

“It looks back on youth,” answered Dick.

“That’s just what I mean,” remarked Thresk.  “Do you mind a cigarette?”

“Not at all.”

Thresk smoked and while he smoked he talked, not carelessly yet careful not to emphasize his case.  “Youth is a graceful thing of high-sounding words and impetuous thoughts, but like many other graceful things it can be very hard and very cruel.”

Dick Hazlewood looked closely and quickly at his companion.  But he answered casually: 

“It is supposed to be generous.”

“And it is—­to itself,” replied Thresk.  “Generous when its sympathies are enlisted, generous so long as all goes well with it:  generous because it is confident of triumph.  But its generosity is not a matter of judgment.  It does not come from any wide outlook upon a world where there is a good deal to be said for everything.  It is a matter of physical health.”

“Yes?” said Dick.

“And once affronted, once hurt, youth finds it difficult to forgive.”

So far both men had been debating on an abstract topic without any immediate application to themselves.  But now Dick leaned across the table with a smile upon his face which Thresk did not understand.

“And why do you say this to me this morning, Mr. Thresk?” he asked pointedly.

“Yes, it’s rather an impertinence, isn’t it?” Thresk agreed.  “But I was looking into a case late last night in which irrevocable and terrible things are going to happen if there is not forgiveness.”

Dick took his cigarette-case from his pocket.

“I see,” he remarked, and struck a match.  Both men rose from the table and at the door Dick turned.

“Your case, of course, has not yet come on,” he said.

“No,” answered Thresk, “but it will very soon.”

They went into the library, and Mr. Hazlewood greeted his son with a vivacity which for weeks had been absent from his demeanour.

“Did you ride this morning?” he asked.

“Yes, but Stella didn’t.  She sent word over that she was tired.  I must go across and see how she is.”

Mr. Hazlewood interposed quickly: 

“There is no need of that, my boy; she is coming here this morning.”

“Oh!”

Dick looked at his father in astonishment.

“She said no word of it to me last night—­and I saw her home.  I suppose she sent word over about that too?”