Cecil wrung his grandfather’s hand. His big brown eyes, with their look of dumb, helpless torment, sought the old man’s as though to convey a message that could never be spoken.
“There, there,” said Sir Thomas. “Good lad, aren’t you? Do your best and we’ll be proud of you yet.”
From an immense distance, across an impassable gulf, it was the answer to the message.
“Good-bye,” said Cecil, in a half-whisper. He turned to his grandmother.
“God bless you,” said Lady Aviolet, crying.
She kissed him, and hurried back into the familiar, unemotional shelter of the morning-room.
But Sir Thomas stood sturdily at the door while Cecil shook hands with the two old servants and he remained there, looking after them as they drove away. His chin dropped heavily on to his breast when at last he turned indoors.
“They were decent, weren’t they?” said Cecil.
“Yes, very.”
“They don’t know about—about what happened in the hall, with Uncle Ford?”