“It is as bad-—or as good-—to let the hyena eat up your sword hand as to cut yourself off from all that is great and noble-—all we used to think you would do.”

So spoke Sydney Evelyn in her girlish prejudice, and the prospects that had recently seemed to Lucas so fair and kindly, suddenly clouded over and became dull, gloomy, and despicable.  She felt as if she were saving him from becoming a deserter as she went on—-

“I am sure Babie must be shocked!”

“I don’t know whether Babie has heard.  She has serious thoughts of coming out as a lady-help, editing the ‘Traveller’s Joy’ as a popular magazine, giving lessons in Greek, or painting the crack picture in the Royal Academy.  In fact, she would rather prefer to have the whole family on her hands.”

“It is all the spirit of self-sacrifice,” said Sydney; “but oh, Lucas, let it be any sacrifice but that of your sword!  Think how we should all feel if there was a great glorious war, and you only a poor creature of a civilian, instead of getting-—as I know you would— -lots of medals and Victoria Crosses, and knighthood-—real knighthood!  Oh, Jock, think of that!  When your mother thinks of that, she can’t want you to make any such mistaken sacrifice to her.  Live on a crust if you like, but don’t-—don’t give up your sword.”

“This is coming it strong,” muttered Jock.  “I did not think anyone cared so much.”

“Of course I care.”

The words were swept off as they whirled together into the dance, where the clasping hands and flying feet had in them a strange impulse, half tenderness, half exultation, as each felt an importance to the other unknown before.  Childishness was not exactly left behind in it, but a different stage was reached.  Sydney felt herself to have done a noble work, and gloried in watching till her hero should have achieved greatness on a crust a day, and Jock was equally touched and elated at the intimation that his doings were so much to her.

Friendship sang the same note.  Cecil, honest lad, had never more than the average amount either of brains or industry, and despised medicines to the full as much as did his sister.  Abhorring equally the toil and the degradation, he deemed it a duty to prevent such a fall, and put his hope in his uncle.  Nay, if his mother had not assured him that it was too late, he would have gone off at once to seek Sir James at his club.

Lord Fordham had been in bed long before the others returned, but in the morning a twisted note was handed to his mother, briefly saying he was running down to see how it was with them at Belforest.

When a station fly was seen drawing to the door, Allen, who was drearily leaning over the stone wall of the terrace, much disorganised by having received no answer to his letter, instantly jumped to the conclusion that Elvira had come home, sprang to the door, and when he only saw the tall figure emerge, he concluded that something dreadful had happened, grasped Fordham’s hand, and demanded what it was.