“I know I oughtn’t to interfere, Paul,” said Jane, “but you mustn’t blame Mr. Finn too much.  Although he differs from you in politics and so on, he loves you and is proud of you—­as we all are—­and looks forward to your great career—­I know it only too well.  And now he has this deep conviction that he has a call from on High to ruin your career at the very beginning.  Do understand, Paul, that he feels himself in a very terrible position.”

“I do,” said Mr. Finn.  “God knows that if it weren’t for His command, I should myself withdraw.”

“I appreciate your position, perfectly,” replied Paul, “but that doesn’t relieve me of my responsibilities.”

Silas Finn rose and locked the fingers of both hands together and stood before Paul, with appealing eyes.  “My son, after what I have said, you are not going to stand against me?”

Paul rose too.  A sudden craze of passion swept him.  “My country has been my country for thirty years.  You have been my father for five minutes.  I stand by my country.”

Silas Finn turned away and waved a haphazard hand.  “And I must stand by my God.”

“Very well.  That bring; us to our original argument.  ’Political foes.  Private friends.’”

Silas turned again and looked into the young man’s eyes.  “But father and son, Paul.”

“All the more honourable.  There’ll be no mud-throwing.  The cleanest election of the century.”

The elder man again covered his face with both hands, and his black and white streaked hair fell over his fingers and the great diamond in his ring flashed oddly, and he rocked his head for a while to and fro.

“I had a call,” he wailed.  “I had a call.  I had a call from God.  It was clear.  It was absolute.  But you don’t understand these things.  His will must prevail.  It was terrible to think of crushing your career—­my only son’s career.  I brought these two friends to help me persuade you not to oppose me.  I did my best, Paul.  I promised them not to resort to the last argument.  But flesh is weak.  For the first time since—­you know—­the knife—­your mother—­I lost self-control.  I shall have to answer for it to my God—­” He stretched out his arms and looked haggardly at Paul.  “But it is God’s will.  It is God’s will that I should voice His message to the Empire.  Paul, Paul, my beloved son—­you cannot flout Almighty God.”

“Your God doesn’t happen to be my God,” said Paul, once more suspicious—­and now hideously so—­of religious mania.  “And possibly the real God is somebody else’s God altogether.  Anyway, England’s the only God I’ve got left, and I’m going to fight for her.”

The door opened and Wilton, the man-servant, appeared.  He looked round.  “I beg your pardon, sir.”

Paul crossed the room.  “What is it?”

“Her Highness, sir,” he said in his well-trained, low voice, “and the Colonel and Miss Winwood.  I told them you were engaged.  But they’ve been waiting for over half-an-hour, sir.”