“I’m like her father,” he said.  “I give Estelle best.  Nothing can spoil her, because she’s so utterly uninterested in herself.  Another thing:  she’s so fair—­almost morbidly fair.  The only thing that makes her savage is injustice.  If she sees an injustice, she won’t leave it alone if it’s in her power to alter it.  That’s her father in her.  What he calls ‘sporting,’ she calls ‘justice.’  And, of course, the essence of sport is justice, if you think it out.”

“I don’t know anything about sport, but I suppose I have to thank cricket for your company at present.  As for Estelle.  I think she has a great idea of your judgment and opinion.”

He laughed.

“If she does, it’s probably because I generally agree with her.  Besides—­”

He broke off and lighted a cigarette.

“‘Besides’ what?” asked the lady.

“Well—­oh I hardly know.  I’m tremendously fond of her.  Perhaps I’ve taken her too much as you say we take the sun and our meat and drink—­as a matter of course.  Yes, like the sun, and as unapproachable.”

Miss Ironsyde considered.

“I suppose you’re right.  I can well imagine that to the average man a ‘Una,’ such as Estelle, may seem rather unapproachable.”

“We’re very good friends, though how good I never quite guessed till this catastrophe.  She seemed to come and help look after me as a matter of course.  Didn’t think it a bit strange.”

“She’s simple, but in a very noble way.  I’ve only one quarrel with her—­the faith of her fathers—­”

“Leave it.  You’ll only put your foot into it, Aunt Jenny.”

“Never,” she said.  “I shall never put my foot into it where right and wrong are concerned—­with Estelle or you, or anybody else.  I’m nearly seventy, remember, Raymond, and one knows what is imperishable and to be trusted at that age.”

Thus she negatived Mr. Churchouse’s dictum—­that mere age demanded no particular reverence, since many years are as liable to error as few.

Her nephew was doubtful.

“Right and wrong are a never-ending puzzle,” he said.  “They vary so from the point of view.  And if you once grant there are more view points than one, where are you?”

“Right and wrong are not doubtful,” she assured him, “and all the science in the world can’t turn one into the other—­any more than light can turn into darkness.”

“Light can turn into darkness easily enough.  I’ve learned that during the last three days,” he answered.  “If you fill this room with light, I can’t see.  If you keep it dark, I can.”

Estelle came to tea and read some notes that Mr. Best had prepared for Raymond.  They satisfied him, and the meal was merry, for he found himself free of pain and in the best spirits.  Estelle, too, had some gossip that amused him.  Her father was already practising at clay pigeons to get his eye in for the first of September; and he wished to inform Raymond that he was shooting well and hoped for a better season than the last.  He had also seen a vixen and three cubs on North Hill at five o’clock in the morning of the preceding day.