Dick was always conscious of a faint, almost impersonal, resentment against destiny when he stayed at Merefield.  It was obvious to him that the position of heir there was one which would exactly have suited his tastes and temperament.  He was extremely pleased to belong to the family—­and it was, indeed, a very exceptional family as regards history:  it had been represented in nearly every catastrophe since the Norman Conquest, and always on the winning side, except once—­but it was difficult to enjoy the distinction as it deserved, living, as he did, in a flat in London all by himself.  When his name was mentioned to a well-informed stranger, it was always greeted by the question as to whether he was one of the Guiseleys of Merefield, and it seemed to him singularly annoying that he could only answer “First cousin.”  Archie, of course, was a satisfactory heir; there was no question of that—­he was completely of Dick’s own school of manner—­but it seemed a kind of outrage that Frank, with his violent convictions and his escapades, should be Archie’s only brother.  There was little of that repose about him that a Guiseley needed.

It would be about half-past nine that the sound of an opening door, and voices, from the further end of the terrace, told them that the smoking-room conference was over, and they stood up as Jenny, very upright and pale in the twilight, with her host at her side, came up towards them.  Dick noticed that the cigar his uncle carried was smoked down almost to the butt, and augured well from that detail.  The old man’s arm was in the girl’s, and he supported himself on the other side, limping a little, on his black stick.

He sat down with a grunt and laid his stick across the table.

“Well, boys, we’ve settled it,” he said.  “Jenny’s to write the telegram.”

“No one need be anxious any more,” announced Jenny imperturbably.  “Lord Talgarth’s extremely angry still, as he has every right to be, and Frank’s going to be allowed to go on the tramp if he wants to.”

The Rector waited, in deferential silence, for corroboration.

“Jenny’s a very sensible girl,” observed Lord Talgarth.  “And what she says is quite right.”

“Do you mean to say—­” began Archie.

The old man frowned round at him.

“All that I’ve said holds good,” he said.

“Frank’s made his bed and he must lie on it.  I warned him.  And Jenny sees that, too.”

Archie glanced at the girl, and Dick looked hard at her, straight into her face.  But there was absolutely no sign there of any perturbation.  Certainly she looked white in the falling dusk, but her eyes were merry and steadfast, and her voice perfectly natural.

“That’s how we’ve settled it,” she said.  “And if I’m satisfied, I imagine everyone else ought to be.  And I’m going to write Frank a good long letter all by myself.  Come along, father, we must be going.  Lord Talgarth isn’t well, and we mustn’t keep him up.”