She did not reply. He turned to his grandfather. "There is no other way," said the old man, sternly. Then in a voice almost shrill with pain and indignation, he cried out as he had never done in his life: "Nothing, nothing, nothing but disgrace! My God in heaven! a lion-tamer—a gipsy! An honourable name dragged through the mire! Go back," he said grandly; "go back to the woman and her lions—savages, savages, savages!"
"Savages after the manner of our forefathers," Gaston answered quietly. "The first Gaston showed us the way. His wife was a strolling player's daughter. Good-bye, sir."
Lady Belward's face was in her hands. "Good-bye-grandmother," he said at the door, and then he was gone.
At the outer door the old housekeeper stepped forward, her gloomy face most agitated.
"Oh, sir, oh, sir, you will come back again? Oh, don't go like your father!"
He suddenly threw an arm about her shoulder, and kissed her on the cheek.
"I'll come back—yes I'll come back here—if I can. Good-bye, Hovey."
In the library Sir William and Lady Belward sat silent for a time. Presently Sir William rose, and walked up and down. He paused at last, and said, in a strange, hesitating voice, his hands chafing each other:
"I forgot myself, my dear. I fear I was violent. I would like to ask his pardon. Ah, yes, yes!"
Then he sat down and took her hand, and held it long in the silence.