mself up with the reflection
that this was a disloyalty to Everard, to his training, and to his
mother. And yet--he reverted--in such a man as Ostermore, sheer
stupidity, a lack of imagination, of insight into things as they really
are, a lack of feeling that would disable him from appreciating the
extent of any wrong he did, seemed to Mr. Caryll to be extenuating
circumstances.

He conceived that he was amazingly dispassionate in his judgment, and
he wondered was he right or wrong so to be. Then the thought of his
task arose in his mind, and it bathed him in a sweat of horror. Over in
France he had allowed himself to be persuaded, and had pledged himself
to do this thing. Everard, the relentless, unforgiving fanatic of
vengeance, had--as we have seen--trained him to believe that the
avenging of his mother's wrongs was the only thing that could justify
his own existence. Besides, it had all seemed remote then, and easy as
remote things are apt to seem. But now--now that he had met in the flesh
this man who was his father--his hesitation was turned to very horror.
It was not that he did not conceive, in spite of his odd ideas upon
temperament and its responsibilities, that his mother's' wrongs cried
out for vengeance, and that the avenging of them would be a righteous,
fitting deed; but it was that he conceived that his own was not the hand
to do the work of the executioner upon one who--after all--was still his
own father. It was hideously unnatural.

He sat in the library, awaiting his lordship and the announcement of
dinner. There was a book before him; but his eyes were upon the window,
the smooth lawns beyond, all drenched in summer sunshine, and his
thoughts were introspective. He looked into his shuddering soul, and saw
that he could not--that he would not--do the thing which he was come to
do. He would await the coming of Everard, to tell him so. There would
be a storm to face, he knew. But sooner that than carry this vile thing
through. It was vile--most damnably vile--he now opined.

The decision taken, he rose and crossed to the window. His mind had been
in travail; his soul had known the pangs of labor. But now that this
strong resolve had been brought forth, an ease and peace were his that
seemed to prove to him how right he was, how wrong must aught else have
been.

Lord Ostermore came in. He announced that they would be dining alone
together. "Her ladyship," he explained, "has gone forth in person to