Dick returned to his father, amazement upon his face.  He spoke as one who cannot believe the evidence of his ears.

“But it’s in the army, father!  Do you realise what you are saying?  You want me to think of my career in the British Army?”

Consistency however had no charms for Mr. Hazlewood at this moment.

“Exactly,” he cried.  “We don’t want to prejudice that—­do we?  No, no, Richard!  Oh, I hear the finest things about you.  And they push the young men along nowadays.  You don’t have to wait for grey hairs before you’re made a General, Richard, so we must keep an eye on our prospects, eh?  And for that reason it would be advisable perhaps”—­and the old man’s eyes fell from Dick’s face to his papers—­“yes, it would certainly be advisable to let your engagement remain for a while just a private matter between the three of us.”

He took up his pen as though the matter was decided and discussion at an end.  But Dick did not move from his side.  He was the stronger of the two and in a little while the old man’s eyes wandered up to his face again.  There was a look there which Margaret Pettifer had seen a week ago.  Dick spoke and the voice he used was strange and formidable to his father.

“There must be no secrecy, father.  I remember what you said:  for uncharitable slander an English village is impossible to beat.  Our secret would be known within a week and by attempting to keep it we invite suspicion.  Nothing could be more damaging to Stella than secrecy.  Consequently nothing could be more damaging to me.  I don’t deny that things are going to be a little difficult.  But of this I am sure”—­and his voice, though it still was quiet, rang deep with confidence—­“our one chance is to hold our heads high.  No secrecy, father!  My hope is to make a life which has been very troubled know some comfort and a little happiness.”

Mr. Hazlewood had no more to say.  He must renounce his gods or hold his tongue.  And renounce his gods—­no, that he could not do.  He heard in imagination the whole neighbourhood laughing—­he saw it a sea of laughter overwhelming him.  He shivered as he thought of it.  He, Harold Hazlewood, the man emancipated from the fictions of society, caught like a silly struggling fish in the net of his own theories!  No, that must never be.  He flung himself at his work.  He was revising the catalogue of his miniatures and in a minute he began to fumble and search about his over-loaded desk.

“Everybody is trying to thwart me this morning,” he cried angrily.

“What’s the matter, father?” asked Dick, laying down the Times.  “Can I help?”

“I wrote a question to Notes and Queries about the Marie Antoinette miniature which I bought at Lord Mirliton’s sale and there was an answer in the last number, a very complete answer.  But I can’t find it.  I can’t find it anywhere”; and he tossed his papers about as though he were punishing them.