“Don’t you mean to speak to her, mamma?”

“If she consults me, of course I shall tell her what I think of the matter, but I shall not force my advice on her, or give these Goulds occasion to say that I am playing into Mrs. Brownlow’s hands.”

They were going to an evening party, and Lucas and Cecil came to dinner to go with them.  Cecil looked grave and gloomy, but Jock rattled away so merrily that Sydney began to wonder whether all this were a dream, or whether he were still unaware of the impending misfortune.

But Jock only waited for the friendly cover of a grand piece of instrumental music to ask Mrs. Evelyn if she had heard from his mother, and she was very glad to go into details with him, while he was infinitely relieved that the silence was over, and he could discuss the matter with his friends.

“Tell me truly, Jock, will she be comfortably off?”

“Very fairly.  Yes, indeed.  My father’s savings were absolutely left to her, and have been accumulating all this time, and they will be a very fair maintenance for her and Babie.”

“There is no danger of her having to pay the mesne profits?”

“No, certainly not, as it stands.  Mr. Wakefield says that cannot happen.  Then the old house in Bloomsbury, where we were all born, is our own, and she likes the notion of returning thither.  Mrs. Evelyn, after all you and Sir James have done for me, what should you think of my giving it up, and taking to the pestle and mortar?”

“My dear Lucas!” Then after a moment’s reflection, “I suppose it would be folly to think of going on as you are?”

“Raving insanity,” said Jock, “and this notion really does seem to please my mother.”

“Is it not just intolerable to hear him?” said Cecil, who had made his way to them.

“‘What is bred in the bone-—’” said Jock.  “What’s that?  Chopin?  Sydney, will you condescend to the apothecary’s boy?”

As he led her to the dancing-room, she asked, “You can’t really mean this, Jock.  Cecil is breaking his heart about it.”

“There are worse trades.”

“But it is such a cruel pity!”

“What?  The execution I shall make,” he said lightly.

“For shame, Jock!”

But he went on teasing her, because their hearts were so very full.  “’Tis just the choice between various means of slaughter.”

“Don’t!” she exclaimed.  “Something can be done to prevent your throwing yourself away.  Why can’t you exchange?”

“It is too late to get into any corps where I should not be an expense to my mother,” said Jock, regretting his decision a good deal more when he found how she regarded it.

“Well, sacrifice is something!” sighed Sydney.

Jock defied strange feelings by a laugh and the reply, “Equal to the finest thing in the ‘Traveller’s Joy,’ and that was the knight who let the hyena eat up his hand that his lady might finish her rosary undisturbed.”