"Ask her to leave me a little of my son. Because there's no doubt. You've taken away all my weapons, Mr. Austin."
"I wish you'd had this conversation with her—you two together."
He relapsed into his formal propriety of demeanor. "I shall, I trust, give Miss Driver no reason to complain of any want of courtesy—if Amyas persists."
"You've accepted it that he will."
"Yes—that's truth," he said. "I may be expected at Breysgate to-morrow at four."
"Then try to make it happy!"
He gave me a slow pondering look. "There is much between me and her—not all against her nor for me. I've come to see that. I'll do my best, Mr. Austin."
He escorted me to the door, and walked in silence with me down a broad walk, bordered on either side by stately trees, till we came to his gates. He looked up at the venerable trees, then pointed to the tarnished coronets that crowned the ironwork, itself rather rusty.
"A fresh coat of paint wanted!" he observed with his chilly smile—and I really did not know whether his remark involved a reference to our previous conversation or not.