nd intellectuals, always talking about the rights
and sufferings of the poor. There was no progress along either of those
roads. He had it in his heart, as he stood there on the pavement, to say
something pretty definite to John about interference with the liberty
of the subject, and he wouldn't mind giving old Felix a rap about his
precious destructive doctrines, and continual girding at the upper
classes, vested interests, and all the rest of it. If he had something
to put in their place that would be another matter. Capital and those
who controlled it were the backbone of the country--what there was left
of the country, apart from these d--d officials and aesthetic fellows!
And with a contraction of his straight eyebrows above his straight gray
eyes, straight blunt nose, blunter moustaches, and blunt chin, he kept a
tight rein on his blunt tongue, not choosing to give way even to his own
anger.

Then, perceiving Felix coming--'in a white topper, by Jove!'--he crossed
the pavement to the door; and, tall, square, personable, rang the bell.

CHAPTER II

"Well, what's the matter at Tod's?"

And Felix moved a little forward in his chair, his eyes fixed with
interest on Stanley, who was about to speak.

"It's that wife of his, of course. It was all very well so long as
she confined herself to writing, and talk, and that Land Society, or
whatever it was she founded, the one that snuffed out the other day; but
now she's getting herself and those two youngsters mixed up in our local
broils, and really I think Tod's got to be spoken to."

"It's impossible for a husband to interfere with his wife's principles."
So Felix.

"Principles!" The word came from John.

"Certainly! Kirsteen's a woman of great character; revolutionary
by temperament. Why should you expect her to act as you would act
yourselves?"

When Felix had said that, there was a silence.

Then Stanley muttered: "Poor old Tod!"

Felix sighed, lost for a moment in his last vision of his youngest
brother. It was four years ago now, a summer evening--Tod standing
between his youngsters Derek and Sheila, in a doorway of his white,
black-timbered, creepered cottage, his sunburnt face and blue eyes the
serenest things one could see in a day's march!

"Why 'poor'?" he said. "Tod's much happier than we are. You've only to
look at him."

"Ah!" said Stanley suddenly. "D'you remember him at Father's
funeral?--without his hat, and his head in the clouds. Fin