Now the brothers had met to thresh out the situation; and a day came when Raymond lunched with his friend and fellow sportsman, Arthur Waldron, of North Hill House, and furnished him with particulars.

In time past, Raymond’s grandfather had bought a thousand acres of land on the side of North Hill.  Here he destroyed one old farmhouse and converted another into the country-seat of his family.  He lived and died there; but his son, Henry, cared not for it, and the place had been let to successive tenants for many years.

Waldron was the last of these, and Raymond’s ambition had always been some day to return to North Hill House and dwell in his grandfather’s home.

At luncheon the party of three sat at a round table on a polished floor of oak.  Estelle played hostess and gazed with frank admiration at the chattering visitor.  He brought a proposition that made her feel very excited to learn what her father would think of it.

Mr. Waldron was tall and thin.  He lived out of doors and appeared to be made of iron, for nothing wearied him as yet.  He had high cheek-bones, and a clean-shaved, agreeable face.  He took sport most seriously, was jealous for its rights and observant of its rituals even in the smallest matters.  Upon the etiquette of all field sports he regarded himself, and was regarded, as an arbiter.

“Tell me how it went,” he said.  “I hope your brother was sporting?”

Mr. Waldron used this adjective in the widest possible sense.  It embraced all reputable action and covered virtue.  If conduct were ‘sporting,’ he demanded no more from any man; while, conversely, ‘unsporting’ deeds condemned the doer in all relations of life and rendered him untrustworthy from every standpoint.

“Depends what you call ‘sporting,’” answered Raymond, whose estimate of the word was not so comprehensive.  “You’d think it would have been rather a case for generosity, but Dan didn’t seem to see that.  It’s unlucky for me in a way he’s not larger-minded.  He’s content with justice—­what he calls justice.  But justice depends on the mind that’s got to do it.  There’s no finality about it, and what Daniel calls justice, I call beastly peddling, if not actual bullying.”

“And what did he call justice?”

“Well, his first idea was to be just to my father, who was wickedly unjust to me.  That wasn’t too good for a start, for if you are going to punish the living, because the dead wanted them to be punished, what price your justice anyway?  But Daniel had a sort of beastly fairness too, for he recognised that my father’s very sudden death must be taken into account.  My Aunt Jenny supported me there; and she was sure he would have altered his will if he had had time.  Daniel granted that, and I began to hope I was going to come well out of it; but I counted my chickens before they were hatched.  Some people have a sort of diseased idea of the value of work and seem to think if you don’t put ten hours a day into an office, you’re not justifying your existence.  Unfortunately for me Daniel is one of those people.  If you don’t work, you oughtn’t to eat—­he actually thinks that.”