As Mrs. Ponsonby often joined in Lady Conway’s drive, Mary and Isabel were generally among the walkers; and Mary was considered by Louisa as an inestimable pony-leader, and an inexhaustible magazine of stories about sharks, earthquakes, llamas, and icebergs.

James and Miss Conway generally had either book or principle to discuss, and were usually to be found somewhat in the rear, either with or without Miss King.  One day, however, James gave notice that he should not be at their service that afternoon; and as soon as Walter’s lessons had been despatched, he set out with rapid steps for Ormersfield Park, clenching his teeth together every now and then with his determinate resolution that he would make Louis know his own mind, and would ‘stand no nonsense.’

‘Ah!  James, good morning,’ said the Earl, as he presented himself in the study.  ’You will find Louis in his room.  I wish you would make him come out with you.  He is working harder than is good for him.’

He spoke of his son far differently from former times; but Jem only returned a judiciously intoned ‘Poor fellow.’

Lord Ormersfield looked at him anxiously, and, hesitating, said, ’You do not think him out of spirits?’

’Oh, he carries it off very well.  I know no one with so strong a sense of duty,’ replied Jem, never compassionate to the father.

Again the Earl paused, then said, ’He may probably speak more unreservedly to you than to me.’

’He shuns the topic.  He says there is no use in aggravating the feelings by discussion.  He would fain submit in heart as well as in will.’

Lord Ormersfield sighed, but did not appear disposed to say more; and, charitably hoping that a dagger had been implanted in him, Jem ran up-stairs, and found Louis sitting writing at a table, which looked as if Mary had never been near it.

‘Jem!  That’s right!  I’ve not seen you this age.’

‘What are you about?’

’I wanted particularly some one to listen.  It is an essay on the Police—­’

‘Is this earnest?’

’Sober earnest.  Sir Miles and all that set are anxious to bring the matter forward, and my father has been getting it up, as he does whatever he may have to speak upon.  His eyes are rather failing for candle-light work, so I have been helping him in the evening, till it struck me that it was a curious subject to trace in history,—­the Censors, the attempts in Germany and Spain, to supply the defective law, the Spanish and Italian dread of justice.  I became enamoured of the notion, and when I have thrown all the hints together, I shall try to take in my father by reading them to him as an article in the Quarterly.’

‘Oh, very well.  If your soul is there, that is an end of the matter.’

‘Of what matter?’

’Things cannot run on in this way.  It is not a thing to lay upon me to go on working in your cause with her when you will not stir a step in your own behalf.’