“The worst of it may be safely called over, now.”
“I suppose so,” said Lady Aviolet, her face in no way relaxing.
The voice of Sir Thomas, stubborn and inflexible, broke out loudly from the other side of the table.
“Now look here, Catherine, it’s no good shirking the point; we’ve got to settle what’s to be done next. Cecil, I don’t want to say more to you than I need. I daresay—and I may say I—I hope—you’ve gone through something already, in the way of shame and sorrow, for the disgrace you’ve brought upon yourself and upon us all.”
“He was leniently dealt with,” said Ford. “We owe a good deal to Lucian’s evidence, in one sense. I can go into that with you some other time, Father, if you prefer it.” He glanced at Rose.
“But the gist of the matter is this. Cecil, not to put too fine a point upon it, ought to have got six months in prison. Instead of that he was told to go to the nearest recruiting office and enlist. The advice was seasoned with some very pungent observations which I will spare you.”
“Good Lord,” groaned Sir Thomas.
“I presume you haven’t got my telegram, Mother,” said Ford. “I sent one to Squires, having no idea you were up here.”
“Diana will have opened it. She’s there, you know. She waited on, most kindly, to see what the plans would be.”
“You’ll be able to go home to-morrow.”