"It's for he and me to decide," Marjorie said again. "This blow that has fallen, this shame, which I suppose attaches to my name, affects only him and me. Not you nor my father, not you nor anyone else in the world. We two must settle it, no one else."
She bowed gravely, and Sir Reginald turned away without speaking again. There was nothing more to be said. He did not go straight home, he took a long walk. His wishes had never been opposed, and he had not expected opposition now.
What would his son say?
Directly after luncheon he broached the subject by asking when his leave was up.
"In about a week's time, guv'nor! Why, are you in a hurry to get rid of me?"
Sir Reginald stood with his back to the great oak fireplace in the large panel dining-room, and with fingers that were not quite steady lit a cigar.
"When I bid Dale good-bye at Charing Cross Hospital before leaving London he told me your secret, Jim. I was sorry to hear it from a stranger's lips. You've never kept anything from me before."
Jim nodded. "I'm sorry, sir. It was a secret I'll admit. Love is different—to other things, and I wanted to be sure of myself and sure of her."
"That's all right. But this unfortunate affair has, of course, altered everything. I saw Marjorie this morning. I went over to sympathise with her and see if we could do anything to help her. She broached the subject."
"About our marriage?"