e takes them and their views of
life seriously. Certainly not their political views! When they come
men they laugh themselves. They are not boys then; they are men. Which
is, as it were, the preface to what I might as well tell you. My
nephew has resigned his captaincy and quitted the army. Apparently he
has come to feel that soldiering is not, after all, the life he
prefers. It may be that he will take to the law, or he may wander and
then laird it when I am gone. Or if he is very wise--I meant to speak
to you of this in private, Goodworth--he might be furnished with
shares and ventures in the East India. He has great abilities."

"Well, India's the field!" said the London merchant, placidly. "If a
man has the mind and the will he may make and keep and flourish and
taste power--"

"Left the King's forces!" cried Munro Touris. "Why--! And will he be
coming to Black Hill, sir?"

"Yes. Next week. We have," said Mr. Touris, and though he tried he
could not keep the saturnine out of his voice--"we have some things to
talk over."

As he spoke he moved from before the summer-house into a cross-path,
and the others followed him and his Company magnate. The Edinburgh
lawyer and Glenfernie found themselves together. The former lagged a
step and held the younger man back with him; he dropped his voice

"I've not been three hours in the house. I've had no talk with Mr.
Touris. What's all this about? I know that you and his nephew are as
close as brothers--not that brothers are always close!"

"He writes only that he is tired of martial life. He has the soldier
in him, but he has much besides. That 'much besides' often steps in to
change a man's profession."

"Well, I hope you'll persuade him to see the old gunpowder very damp!
I remember that, as a very young man, he talked imprudently. But he
has been," said the lawyer, "far and wide since those days."

"Yes, far and wide."

Mr. Wotherspoon with a long forefinger turned a crimson rose seen in
profile full toward him. "I met him--once--when I was in London a year
ago. I had not seen him for years." He let the rose swing back. "He
has a magnificence! Do you know I study a good deal? They say that so
do you. I have an inclination toward fifteenth-century Italian. I
should place him there." He spoke absently, still staring at the rose.
"A dash--not an ill dash, of course--of what you might call the Borgia
... good and evil tied into a sultry, thunderous splendor."

Glenf