going to turn the tables. One doesn't need to look at you twice to see
that things aren't going altogether as they should do with you. See
here! Are you sure that you're not cutting off your nose to spite your
face, eh?"

"Perhaps I am," Brooks answered. "But it is too late to draw back now."

"It is never too late," Mr. Bullsom declared, vigorously. "I've no
fancy for weathercocks, but I haven't a ha'porth of respect for a man
who ain't smart enough to own up when he's made a mistake, and who isn't
willing to start again on a fresh page. You take my advice, Brooks. Be
reconciled with your father, and let 'em all know who you are. I've
seen a bit of Lord Arranmore, and I'll stake my last shilling that he's
not a bad 'un at heart. You make it up with him, Brooks. Come, that's
a straight tip, and it's a good one."

Brooks threw away his cigarette and held out his hand.

"It is very good advice, Mr. Bullsom," he said, "under any ordinary
circumstances. I wish I could take it. Good-night."

Mr. Bullsom grasped his hand.

"You're not offended, my boy?" he asked, anxiously.

"Not I," Brooks answered, heartily. "I'm not such an idiot."

"I don't want to take any liberties," Bullsom said, "and I'm afraid I
forget sometimes who you are, but that's your fault, seeing that you
will call yourself only Mr. Kingston Brooks when you're by rights a
lord. But if you were the Prince of Wales I'd still say that my advice
was good. Forgive your father anything you've got against him, and
start afresh."

"Well, I'll think about it," Brooks promised.

CHAPTER IX

A QUESTION AND AN ANSWER

Brooks returned to London to find the annual exodus already commenced.
Lady Caroom and Sybil had left for Homburg. Lord Arranmore was yachting
in the Channel. Brooks settled down to work, and found it a little
wearisome.

He saw nothing of Mary Scott, whose duties now brought her seldom to the
head office. He began to think that she was avoiding him, and there
came upon him about this time a sense of loneliness to which he was
sometimes subject. He fought it with hard work--early and late, till
the colour left his cheeks and black lines bordered his eyes. They
pressed him to take a holiday, but he steadily declined. Mr. Bullsom
wrote begging him to spend a week-end at least at Woton Hall. He
refused this and all other invitations.

One day he took up a newspaper which was chiefly concerned with the
doings of fashionable people, and La