“I have tried,” he continued, “to repeat the exact words which the old man used to me, and I do not find it so difficult as you might imagine, because at that time they made a great impression upon me.  But I cannot, of course, hope to reproduce to you his terrible earnestness, the burning passion with which every word seemed to spring from his lips.  Their effect upon me at that time you will be able to judge when I tell you this—­that I never returned to my rooms, that for ten years I never set foot west of Temple Bar.  I first joined a small society in Whitechapel, then I worked for myself, and finally I became a police-court missionary at Southwark Police-Court.  The history of those years is the history of a slowly-growing madness.  I commenced by trying to improve whole districts-I ended with the individual.”

Brooks’ wineglass fell with a little crash upon the tablecloth.  The wine, a long silky stream, flowed away from him unstaunched, unregarded.  His eyes were fixed upon Lord Arranmore.  He leaned forward.

“A police-court missionary!” he cried, hoarsely.

Lord Arranmore regarded him for a moment in silence.

“Yes.  As you doubtless surmise, I am your father.  Afterwards you may ask me questions.”

Brooks sat as one stupefied, and then a sudden warm touch upon his hand sent the blood coursing once more through his veins.  Sybil’s fingers lay for a moment upon his.  She smiled kindly at him.  Lord Arranmore’s voice once more broke the short silence.

“The individual was my greatest disappointment,” he continued.  “Young and old, all were the same.  I took them to live with me, I sent them abroad, I found them situations in this country, I talked with them, read with them, showed them the simplest means within their reach by means of which they might take into their lives a certain measure of beautiful things.  Failure would only make me more dogged, more eager.  I would spend months sometimes with one man or boy, and at last I would assure myself of success.  I would find them a situation, see them perhaps once a week, then less often, and the end was always the same.  They fell back.  I had put the poison to sleep, but it was always there.  It was their everlasting heritage, a gift from father to son, bred in the bone, a part of their blood.

“In those days I married a lady devoted to charitable works.  Our purpose was to work together, but we found it impracticable.  There was, I fear, little sympathy between us.  The only bond was our work—­and that was soon to be broken.  For there came a time, after ten breathless years, when I paused to consider.”

He raised his glass to his lips and drained it.  The wine was powerful, but it brought no tinge of colour to his cheeks, nor any lustre to his eyes.  He continued in the same firm, expressionless tone.