“I am not too young now, mother, and I wish to join John in every obligation my father made for himself and us.  After this John must tithe my share just as he tithes his own.”

Then while her heart was overflowing with a religious love and joy in her sons, Mrs. Hatton rose and bid them good night.  “I will go to my room,” she said.  “I’ll warrant I shall find the very company I want there.”

“Stay with us, mother,” said Harry.  “I want to talk to you,” and he was so persistent that it fretted her, and she asked with a touch of impatience,

“Harry Hatton, have you yet to learn that when a woman wants to be by herself she is expecting better company than you can give her?”

For a few moments the young men were silent.  Mrs. Hatton took so much vitality out of the room with her that the level of the atmosphere was sensibly disturbed, and had to be readjusted before it was comfortably useful.  John sat still during this period.  His sight was inward and consequently his eyes were dropped.  Harry was restless, his sight was outward and his eyes far-seeking.  He was the first to speak.

“John,” he said, in a tone holding both anger and grief, “John, you behaved unkindly to me this evening.  You either persuaded mother to talk as she did, or you fell in with her intention and helped her.”

“You might speak plainer, Harry.”

“I will.  Both mother and you, either by accident or agreement, prevented me naming Lucy.  Lucy was the only subject I wanted to talk about, and you prevented me.”

“If I did, it was the wisest and kindest thing I could do.”

“For yourselves—­but how about me?”

“I was thinking of you only.”

“Then you must think of Lucy with me.”

“It is not yet a question of must.  If it comes to that, both mother and I will do all the situation calls for.  In the interval, we do not wish to discuss circumstances we may never be compelled to face.”

“Then you are counting on my being drowned at sea, or on Lucy dying or else marrying someone while I am away.”

John was silent so long that Harry began to enlarge on his last proposition.  “Of course,” he continued, “I may be drowned, and if Lucy was false to me a watery grave of any kind would be welcome; but——­”

“Harry,” said John, and he leaned forward and put his hand on his brother’s knee, “Harry, my dear lad, listen to me.  I am going to tell you something I have never told even mother.  You have met Lady Penryn, I suppose?”

“I have seen her three or four times in the hunting field.  She rides horses no one else would mount.  She does everything at the danger point.  Lord Thirsk said she had been disappointed in love and wanted to kill herself.”

“Did you think her handsome?”

“Oh, dear, no!  Far from it!  She is blowsy and fat, has far too much color, and carries too much flesh in spite of the rough way she uses herself.”