“I don’t know about Grenfell, but I know that Ireland is not to be bettered by men like you. It is out of our own rough energies must come the cure for our own coarse maladies. Go back and build model cottages in Norfolk, give prizes to your oldest farm labourer, or the mother of the largest family. Here’s your yawl; good-by.”
“Do step in and come on board with me, Luttrell, if only for an hour or two.”
“No, I cannot. I’d not stand your friend’s impertinences about Ireland, besides, and I’d be led into rudenesses, which I’d not forgive myself. Lady Vyner is not with you?”
“No, she’s in Wales, at Llantlannoch, where I wish you’d let me tell her you were coming to see her.”
“Who knows!”
“My dear Luttrell, is this a promise?”
“No, not exactly.”
“Will you write to me.”
“I think not.”
“May I write to you?”