Perhaps a clearer glimpse of a new and, to him, utterly unsuspected force in his son’s character withheld the imperious command that trembled on the Earl’s lips. Medenham halted. The two looked at each other, and the older man fidgeted with his collar, which seemed to have grown tight for his neck.
“Come, come, let us not leave a friendly argument in this unsettled state,” he said after an awkward pause. “My only thought is for your interests, you know. Your lifelong happiness is at stake, to say nothing of the future of our house.”
“I recognize those considerations so fully that I am going now in order to shirk even the semblance of a quarrel between us.”
“Why not thresh things out? Your aunt will be here in a couple of hours——”
“You refuse to hear a word. You argue with a hammer, sir. I shall send a note to Lady St. Maur telling her that she has done mischief in plenty without adding fuel to the fire by coming here to-day—unless you wish to consult her, that is?”
The Earl, already afraid of his sister, was rapidly learning to fear his son.
“Dash it all! don’t tell me you are off on this d—d motoring trip once more?” he cried passionately.
Medenham smiled, even in his anger.
“See how willfully you misunderstand me,” he said. “I came away from Miss Vanrenen solely because matters had gone far enough under rather absurd conditions. She knows me only as Fitzroy, the chauffeur; it is time to drop masquerading. Romance is delightful in its way—perhaps there might well be more of it in this commonplace world of ours—but none of us can afford to play the knight errant too long, so when next I meet Cynthia it will be as a man who occupies a social position that renders our marriage at least possible.”
Lord Fairholme threw out his hands in a gesture of sheer bewilderment.