"You never sounded as if the idea would be acceptable."
"Didn't I? Letters are the devil," murmured Roy—all penitence now. "And if it hadn't been for Tara——" He stopped awkwardly. Their eyes met, and they smiled. "Did you know ... she wrote? And that's why I'm here?"
"Well done, Tara! I didn't know. I had dim suspicions. I also had a dim hope that—my picture might tempt you——"
"Oh, it would have—letter or no. It's an inspired thing."—He had already written at length on that score.—"You were mightily clever—the two of you!"
His father twinkled. "That as may be. We had the trifling advantage of knowing our Roy!"
They sat on till all the light had ebbed from the sky and the moon had come into her own. It was still early; but time is the least ingredient of such a day; and Sir Nevil rose on the stroke of ten.
"You look fagged out, old boy. And the sooner you're asleep—the sooner it will be to-morrow! A pet axiom of yours. D'you remember?"
Did he not remember?
They went upstairs together; the great house seemed oppressively empty and silent. On the threshold of Roy's room they said good-night. There was an instant of palpable awkwardness; then Roy—overcoming it—leaned forward and kissed the patch of white hair on his father's temple.
"God bless you," Sir Nevil said rather huskily. "You ought to sleep sound in there. Don't dream."