The Squire was sitting hunched up, looking old and tired, his thick white hair piled fantastically above his eyes.
Desmond straightened his shoulders with the air of one going over the parapet.
'Well, it's this, father. I do wish you'd give up that row about the park!'
The Squire sat up impatiently.
'That's not your business, Desmond. It can't matter to you.'
'Yes, but it does matter to me!' said the boy with energy. 'It'll be in all the papers—the fellows will gas about it at mess—it's awfully hard lines on me. It makes me feel rotten!'
The Squire laughed. He was reminded of a Fourth of June years before, when Desmond had gone through agonies of shame because his father was not, in his eyes, properly 'got-up' for the occasion—how he had disappeared in the High Street, and only joined his people again in the crowd at the fireworks.
'I recommend you to stick it, Desmond. It won't last long. I've got my part to play, and you've got yours. You fight because they make you.'
'I don't!' said the boy passionately. 'I fight because—'
Then his words broke down. He descended from the table.