“I see!” he said.  “Thanks, Tom; I’m glad to know.”

Without moving a muscle, Tom Gaunt answered: 

“Don’t mention it!” and resumed his lopping.

Derek turned and walked out of the little wood.  But when he had put a field between him and the sound of Gaunt’s bill-hook, he lay down and buried his face in the grass, chewing at its green blades, scarce dry of dew, and with its juicy sweetness tasting the full of bitterness.  And the gray shade stalked out again, and stood there in the warmth of the August day, with its scent and murmur of full summer, while the pigeons cooed and dandelion fluff drifted by. . . .

When, two hours later, he entered the kitchen at home, of the company assembled Frances Freeland alone retained equanimity enough to put up her face to be kissed.

“I’m so thankful you’ve come back in time to see your uncles, darling.  Your Uncle John thinks, and we all agree, that to encourage those poor laborers to do things which are not nice is—­is—­you know what I mean, darling!”

Derek gave a bitter little laugh.

“Criminal, Granny!  Yes, and puppyish!  I’ve learned all that.”

The sound of his voice was utterly unlike his own, and Kirsteen, starting forward, put her arm round him.

“It’s all right, Mother.  They’ve chucked me.”

At that moment, when all, save his mother, wanted so to express their satisfaction, Frances Freeland alone succeeded.

“I’m so glad, darling!”

Then John rose and, holding out his hand to his nephew, said: 

“That’s the end of the trouble, then, Derek?”

“Yes.  And I beg your pardon, Uncle John; and all—­Uncle Stanley, Uncle Felix; you, Dad; Granny.”

They had all risen now.  The boy’s face gave them—­even John, even Stanley—­a choke in the throat.  Frances Freeland suddenly took their arms and went to the door; her other two sons followed.  And quietly they all went out.

Derek, who had stayed perfectly still, staring past Nedda into a corner of the room, said: 

“Ask him what he wants, Mother.”

Nedda smothered down a cry.  But Kirsteen, tightening her clasp of him and looking steadily into that corner, answered: 

“Nothing, my boy.  He’s quite friendly.  He only wants to be with you for a little.”

“But I can’t do anything for him.”

“He knows that.”

“I wish he wouldn’t, Mother.  I can’t be more sorry than I have been.”

Kirsteen’s face quivered.

“My dear, it will go quite soon.  Love Nedda!  See!  She wants you!”

Derek answered in the same quiet voice: 

“Yes, Nedda is the comfort.  Mother, I want to go away—­away out of England—­right away.”

Nedda rushed and flung her arms round him.

“I, too, Derek; I, too!”