"It is my simple duty."
He had not yet said what had to be said. It was difficult to come to the point. He was sorely tempted to put off.
"But your friend who—had he a right to forbid the army?"
"I suppose he had—in a way. He made it a condition of giving the help that I—we—needed."
"I see," she said. But she felt that she did not see. "Was he a near relative?"
"No. A friend." Doris kept uneasy silence. He added, "My mother enforced his wish."
She repeated, "Your mother?" with a note of inquiry.
"I have meant to tell you more about her. It is right that I should. Her father, my grandfather, was, I have always heard, a very superior man; head-clerk in a large house of business in Manchester. But he married beneath him—one of the mill-hands. I don't know how it came about. My mother was left an orphan very young; and her home was with an uncle—a farmer. She is not well educated. She was sent to school, I know, for two or three years—but perhaps she did not care to learn."
Doris was taken acutely by surprise. She did not know what to say; and she waited in silence for more.
"My father," he went on in a low voice, "died when I was a little child. I have no remembrance of him. But my mother once told me that he was well-born—well-connected. And I know—apart from what she said— I know, from what is in me, that he must have been of gentle birth. You understand, do you not? I have all the instincts of gentle blood. That at least I may claim, without hesitation. I have them—not from training only, but by inheritance."