"No!" Arthur faced round upon his brother, his cheeks blazing.
"Perfectly true. Mother's taken time by the forelock. I have no doubt she has already written your speech."
"What on earth can I do?" He stood in helpless despair.
"Have a row!" said Coryston, laughing. "A good row and stick to it! Tell mother you won't be treated so—that you're a man, not a school-boy—that you prefer, with many thanks, to write your own speeches—et cetera. Play the independence card for all you're worth. It may get you out of the mess."
Arthur's countenance began to clear.
"I'm to make it appear a bargain—between you and me? I asked you to give up your show, and you—"
"Oh, any lies you like," said Coryston, placidly. "But as I've already warned you, it won't help you long."
"One gains a bit of time," said the young lover, in a tone of depression.
"What's the good of it? In a year's time Glenwilliam will still be Glenwilliam—and mother mother. Of course you know you'll break her heart—and that kind of thing. Marcia made me promise to put that before you. So I do. It's perfectly true; though I don't know that I am the person to press it! But then mother and I have always disagreed—whereas you have been the model son."
Angry melancholy swooped once more upon Arthur.