‘My brother has no son, Mr. Peebles,’ said Conseltine sternly.
‘Ay has he,’ said Peebles—‘Desmond Macartney.’
‘The fruit of a foolish liaison with a peasant. My dear Henry——’
‘Peebles is right, Dick,’ said Kilpatrick. ‘Desmond should be my heir.’
‘My dear Henry!’ said Conseltine, ‘you must surely be mad. Proclaim your folly to the world! Acknowledge a waif and stray as your flesh and blood! It is simply midsummer madness! Thank God, whatever you do with any portion of your personal possessions, you can’t pass your patrimonial title to one born out of wedlock.’
Kilpatrick looked from his brother to Peebles, and back again, interlacing his fingers and dragging them apart.
‘Faith,’ he said, ‘that’s true, that’s true, Peebles. The title must go to my next-of-kin. It must go. There’s no help for it, and the title, with nothing to support it! eh? You must see that, Peebles. Gad, I’m sorry—I’m devilish sorry!’ He rose. ‘Never mind, Peebles, Desmond shan’t be forgotten. Trust me, he shan’t be forgotten.’
Conseltine offered him his arm, and he took it with a glance at his servant.
‘Ay, my lord,’ said Peebles, with an immovable face, ‘lean on your brother. It’s good to have loving kith and kin.’
Voices and laughter were heard from the landing without, and a moment later Dulcie, with Desmond at her heels, entered the room.