the room, and although the lackey quite loudly announced his lordship, his fine hand continued to travel across the paper, and he neither looked up nor betrayed by even the smallest sign that he had heard the announcement.
The Marquis paused for a moment on the threshold, eyeing him; then he walked across to the fireplace and stretched one elegantly shod foot to the warmth. To all appearances he was thoughtfully observing the extremely high polish on his top boot, but once he put up his hand to the Mechlin lace round his throat, and gave it a tug as though it were too tight.
He was dressed with unusual care, possibly out of deference to his grace’s known views, but, as was his habit in the forenoon, for riding. His buff breeches were of impeccable cut, his coat of blue cloth with silver buttons was somewhat severe, but admirably became his tall person. His fringed cravat was for once very neatly arranged, the ends thrust through a gold buttonhole, and his black locks strictly confined by a thin black riband. He wore no jewellery save a heavy gold signet ring, and his face was innocent of the patches and powder affected by the Macaronis.
The Duke had finished writing, and was now reading his letter through with maddening deliberation. Vidal felt his temper rising, and set his teeth. Having made some slight alteration in his letter, the Duke folded it, and dipping his quill in the standish, began to write the direction. Without turning his head he said: “You may sit down, Vidal.”
“Thank you, sir, I’ll stand,” replied his lordship curtly.
The Duke laid his letter aside, ready for sealing, and at last turned, shifting his chair so that he could survey his son. Vidal found himself wishing, for perhaps the hundredth time in his life, that it was possible to read his father’s expression.
The eyes, faintly disdainful, travelled from Vidal’s boots to his face, and there stayed. “I suppose I should count myself honoured that you have been able to visit me,” said his grace gently.
There did not seem to be anything to say in answer to this. After a moment’s uncomfortable silence the Duke continued: “Your presence in England is extremely — shall we say enlivening? — Vidal. But I believe I shall survive the loss of it.”
At that the Marquis spoke. “Is he dead then?”
Avon’s brows rose in polite surprise. “Is it possible that you don’t know?”
“I don’t, sir.”
“I envy you your light-heartedness,” said Avon. “So far, as I am aware the gentleman still lives. Whether he continues to do so or not is a question that does not at the moment concern me. It will make very little difference to you. Three months ago I warned you that your next killing would prove serious. You will allow me to point out that it is never wise to disregard my warnings.”
“Certainly, sir. I take it I may have to stand my trial?”
“Not at all,” said his grace coldly. “I am still somebody. But you may take it that for some appreciable time to come your residence will be upon the Continent. An affair of honour, conducted honourably, might have been condoned. A pot-house brawl can only be — one trusts — eventually forgotten.”
The Marquis flushed. “One moment, sir. My affairs, whether settled at Barn Elms or in a pot-house, are still honourably conducted.”
“I make you my apologies,” replied Avon, slightly inclining his head. “You must forgive my declining years, which make it difficult for me to appreciate the manners of your generation. In my day we did not fight in gaming- hells, or when we were in our cups.”
“A mistake, sir, I admit. I am sorry for it.”
The Duke looked at him sardonically. “I am not in the least interested in your emotions, Vidal. What I object to is that you have had the impertinence to disturb your mother. That I do not permit. You will leave England at once.”
Vidal was very pale, and a muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ll stand my trial, I believe.”
The Duke put up his glass and surveyed Vidal through it. “You do not appear to have much understanding of the situation,” he remarked. “You will leave England, not to save your neck, nor because it is my will, but to spare your mother any further anxiety concerning your safety. I trust I make myself plain?”
Vidal looked at him with hard defiant eyes. Then he strode restlessly to the window and back again. “Quite plain. Yet if I say I’ll not go, what then?”
“I should regret the necessity of course, but I should — er — contrive your departure willy-nilly.”
The Marquis gave a short laugh. “Egad, I believe you would! I’ll go.”
“You had better bid your mother good-bye,” recommended his grace. “You will reach the coast quite easily by to-night.”
“Just as you please, sir,” Vidal said indifferently. He picked up his hat and gloves from the table. “Is there anything more you desire to say to me?”
“Very little,” Avon answered. “Your restraint is quite admirable. I applaud it.”
“I thought it was my lack of it that had offended your sensibilities, sir,” said Vidal grimly. “You go too fast for me.”
Avon smiled. “You must not think me witless, my dear boy. I am perfectly aware that you would like to throw my extremely reprehensible past in my teeth.”
“I confess, sir, I find your homily a little ironic.”
“Quite amusing, is it not?” agreed his grace. “I am perfectly sensible of it. But the road I travelled is not the road I should desire my son to take. And you will no doubt agree that a liberal experience of vice gives me some right to judge.” He rose and came to the fire. “Concerning more immediate matters, you may draw upon Foley’s in Paris, of course.”
“Thank you, sir, I have enough for my needs,” the Marquis said stiffly.
“I compliment you. You are certainly the first Alastair ever to say so. You will find your mother upstairs.”
“Then I’ll take my leave of you, sir,” Vidal said. “Accept my apologies for the inconvenience I may have caused you.” He bowed, unsmiling, and turned sharp on his heel.
As he jerked open the door, Avon spoke again. “By the way, Vidal, does my record still stand?”
The Marquis looked back over his shoulder, frowning. “Your record, sir?”
“Three hours and forty-seven minutes was my time,” said his grace pensively.
An unwilling laugh broke from Vidal. “No, sir, your record does not stand.”
“I thought not,” said Avon. “May I be permitted to know the new record?”
“Three hours and forty-four minutes. But the curricle was specially designed.”
“So was mine,” said Avon. “I am glad you bettered my time. If I were twenty years younger — ”
“I beg you will not attempt it, sir,” said the Marquis quickly. He hesitated; the stormy look was still in his face, but his eyes had softened.
“Pray do not do violence to your feelings,” Avon said. “You will find me remarkably hard to wound.”
The Marquis let go the door handle, and came back to his father’s side. “I beg your pardon, sir.” He took Avon’s thin hand in his, and bent to touch it with his lips. “
“Let us say, rather,
Upon which they parted, each one understanding the other tolerably well.
Vidal’s interview with his mother lasted much longer, and was to him even more unpleasant. Léonie had no reproaches for him, but she was plainly unhappy, and the Marquis hated to see his mother unhappy.
“It’s my damnable temper, maman,” he said ruefully.
She nodded. “I know. That is why I am feeling very miserable. It is no good people saying you are a devil like all the Alastairs, because me, I know that it is my temper that you have,
“I haven’t that excuse,” said her son, grinning.
“No, but you behave just as I should like to when I am enraged,” Léonie said candidly. “When I was young I was very fond of shooting people dead. Of course, I never did shoot anyone, but I wanted to — oh, often! I meant to shoot my father once — which shocked Rupert — it was when M. de Saint-Vire kidnapped me, and Rupert
