“Personally,” Sir Bertram continued, “I regret nothing, I blame nobody for anything. I consider that everything was justified. You have to make a fresh start, Gregory. Don’t do so with that somewhat bourgeois impediment—a slurred conscience. What has been done has been done, and is finished with.”
Gregory for a moment did not reply. His puzzled eyes sought his father’s, but sought them in vain.
“For my part,” Sir Bertram repeated steadily, “I regret nothing. It was worth the effort. And as for Henry—God bless him!”
The lights of the car flashed from the stable yard.
“And so, my dear boy,” his father concluded, in his ordinary tone, “you swing your bundle, figuratively speaking, at the end of your stick, and set out on your allegorical journey. Only, for God’s sake, don’t come back Lord Mayor of London!”
Gregory had already taken his seat, the chauffeur’s hand was upon the change speeds gear, when Rawson hurried forward.
“There is another car coming up the avenue, sir,” he announced. “Would it be as well to wait for a moment?”
Gregory looked out of the window. He could see the twin lights flashing in the distance, gleaming slantwise through the trees, then again pools of light in the semi-darkness. For only a moment he hesitated, but, during that moment, it seemed to him that he was taking leave of much that was dear in life. Then he stepped out of the car and stood upon the edge of the terrace.
“It might be as well, Rawson,” he agreed, with somewhat elaborate casualness.
“I wonder who the devil it can be at this time of the night?” Sir Bertram speculated.