He asked Adrian one day in the park—­who she was.

“I don’t know her,” said Adrian.  “Probably a superior priestess of Paphos.”

“Now that’s my idea of Bellona,” Richard exclaimed.  “Not the fury they paint, but a spirited, dauntless, eager-looking creature like that.”

“Bellona?” returned the wise youth.  “I don’t think her hair was black.  Red, wasn’t it?  I shouldn’t compare her to Bellona; though, no doubt, she’s as ready to spill blood.  Look at her!  She does seem to scent carnage.  I see your idea.  No; I should liken her to Diana emerged from the tutorship of Master Endymion, and at nice play among the gods.  Depend upon it—­they tell us nothing of the matter—­Olympus shrouds the story—­but you may be certain that when she left the pretty shepherd she had greater vogue than Venus up aloft.”

Brayder joined them.

“See Mrs. Mount go by?” he said.

“Oh, that’s Mrs. Mount!” cried Adrian.

“Who’s Mrs. Mount?” Richard inquired.

“A sister to Miss Random, my dear boy.”

“Like to know her?” drawled the Hon. Peter.

Richard replied indifferently, “No,” and Mrs. Mount passed out of sight and out of the conversation.

The young man wrote submissive letters to his father.  “I have remained here waiting to see you now five weeks,” he wrote.  “I have written to you three letters, and you do not reply to them.  Let me tell you again how sincerely I desire and pray that you will come, or permit me to come to you and throw myself at your feet, and beg my forgiveness, and hers.  She as earnestly implores it.  Indeed, I am very wretched, sir.  Believe me, there is nothing I would not do to regain your esteem and the love I fear I have unhappily forfeited.  I will remain another week in the hope of hearing from you, or seeing you.  I beg of you, sir, not to drive me mad.  Whatever you ask of me I will consent to.”

“Nothing he would not do!” the baronet commented as he read.  “There is nothing he would not do!  He will remain another week and give me that final chance!  And it is I who drive him mad!  Already he is beginning to cast his retribution on my shoulders.”

Sir Austin had really gone down to Wales to be out of the way.  A Shaddock-Dogmatist does not meet misfortune without hearing of it, and the author of The Pilgrim’S Scrip in trouble found London too hot for him.  He quitted London to take refuge among the mountains; living there in solitary commune with a virgin Note-book.

Some indefinite scheme was in his head in this treatment of his son.  Had he construed it, it would have looked ugly; and it settled to a vague principle that the young man should be tried and tested.

“Let him learn to deny himself something.  Let him live with his equals for a term.  If he loves me he will read my wishes.”  Thus he explained his principle to Lady Blandish.

The lady wrote:  “You speak of a term.  Till when?  May I name one to him?  It is the dreadful uncertainty that reduces him to despair.  That, and nothing else.  Pray be explicit.”