Jack met his gaze. They were still wonderfully alike, these two men, though one was in his prime while the other was infirm. On each face there was the stamp of a long-drawn, silent pride; each was a type of those haughty conquerors who stepped, mail-clad, on our shore eight hundred years ago. Form and feature, mind and heart, had been handed down from father to son, as great types are.
“One may have the right feeling and bestow it by mistake on the wrong person,” said Jack.
Sir John's fingers were at his lips.
“Yes,” he said rather indistinctly, “while the right person is waiting for it.”
Jack looked up sharply, as if he either had not heard or did not understand.
“While the right person is waiting for it,” repeated Sir John deliberately.
“The right person—?”
“Jocelyn Gordon,” exclaimed Sir John, “is the right person.”
Jack shrugged his shoulders and leant back so that the firelight did not shine upon his face. “So I found out eighteen months ago,” he said, “when it was too late.”
“There is no such thing as too late for that,” said Sir John in his great wisdom. “Even if you were both quite old it would not be too late. I have known it for longer than you. I found it out two years ago.”