he fireplace,
leaning forward a little, looking into the fire.

"Well," she said at last. "What is it?" Her voice was deep, but every
word was clear-cut, resonant.

"There _is_ something--two things," he answered her slowly. "You can
dismiss me for an interfering old fool, you know. You often have been
tempted to do it before, I dare say."

"I have," she said. "Go on."

But as she spoke she drew her hands a little more closely together. She
was not quite so ready for these battles as she had once been. She was
afraid a little now. A new sensation for her; she hated that restricting
awkwardness that would remain between them for days afterwards.

She looked at his red, cheerful face and wondered impatiently why he
must always be meddling in other people's affairs. She hated Quixotes.

"Your Grace," he began again, "has only got to stop me and I'll say no
more."

"Oh yes, you will," she said impatiently. "I know you. Say what you
please."

"I want to speak about Francis Breton----" He paused, but she said
nothing, only for an instant her whole face flashed into stone. The
firelight seemed for an instant to hold it there, then, as the flame
fell, she was once again indifferent.

Christopher had grasped his courage now. He went on gravely:

"I must speak about him. I know how unpleasant the whole subject is to
you. We've had our discussions before and I've fought his battles with
all the world more times than I can count. You must remember that I've
known Frank all his life--I knew his unhappy father. I've known them
both long enough to realize that the boy's been heavily handicapped from
the beginning----"

"Must you," she said, looking him now full in the face, "must it be
this? Have we not thrashed it out thoroughly enough already? I don't
change, you know."

He understood that she was appealing to his regard for their own
especial relationship. But there was a note of control in her voice; he
knew that now she would listen:

"I've cared for Frank during a number of years. I know he's weak,
impulsive, incredibly foolish. He's always been his own worst enemy. I
know that the other day he wrote a most foolish letter----"

"It was a letter beyond forgiveness," she said, her voice trembling.

"Yes, I would give anything to have prevented it. I know that when he
was in England before I pleaded for him, as I am doing now, and that by
a thousand foolhardy actions he negatived anything that I could say for
hi