“Where’s my father?” he asked of Hubbard the butler.

“Mr. Hazlewood breakfasted half an hour ago, sir.  He’s at work now.”

“Capital,” said Dick.  “Give me some sausages.  Hubbard, what would you say if I told you that I was going to be married?”

Hubbard placed a plate in front of him.

“I should keep my head, sir,” he answered in his gentle voice.  “Will you take tea?”

“Thank you.”

Dick looked out of the window.  It was a morning of clear skies and sunlight, a very proper morning for this the first of all the remarkable days which one after the other were going especially to belong to him.  He was of the gods now.  The world was his property, or rather he held it in trust for Stella.  It was behaving well; Dick Hazlewood was contented.  He ate a large breakfast and strolling into the library lit his pipe.  There was his father bending over his papers at his writing-table before the window, busy as a bee no doubt at some new enthusiasm which was destined to infuriate his neighbours.  Let him go on!  Dick smiled benignly at the old man’s back.  Then he frowned.  It was curious that his father had not wished him a good-morning, curious and unusual.

“I hope, sir, that you slept well,” he said.

“I did not, Richard,” and still the back was turned to him.  “I lay awake considering with some care what you told me last night about—­about Stella Ballantyne.”

Of late she had been simply Stella to Harold Hazlewood.  The addition of Ballantyne was significant.  It replaced friendliness with formality.

“Yes, we agreed to champion her cause, didn’t we?” said Dick cheerily.  “You took one good step forward last night, I took another.”

“You took a long stride, Richard, and I think you might have consulted me first.”

Dick walked over to the table at which his father sat.

“Do you know, that’s just what Stella said,” he remarked, and he seemed to find the suggestion rather unintelligible.  Mr. Hazlewood snatched at any support which was offered to him.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, and for the first time that morning he looked his son in the face.  “There now, Richard, you see!”

“Yes,” Richard returned imperturbably.  “But I was able to remove all her fears.  I was able to tell her that you would welcome our marriage with all your heart, for you would look upon it as a triumph for your principles and a sure sign that my better nature was at last thoroughly awake.”

Dick walked away from the table.  The old man’s face lengthened.  If he was a philosopher at all, he was a philosopher in a piteous position, for he was having his theories tested upon himself, he was to be the experiment by which they should be proved or disproved.

“No doubt,” he said in a lamentable voice.  “Quite so, Richard.  Yes,” and he caught at vague hopes of delay.  “There’s no hurry of course.  For one thing I don’t want to lose you...  And then you have your career to think of, haven’t you?” Mr. Hazlewood found himself here upon ground more solid and leaned his weight on it.  “Yes, there’s your career.”