I bowed my head.
"And I—I accepted the responsibility, and it has come to this."
I was silent, and, indeed, what was there to say?
I suppose we both tried to think out the best course for the future, but for myself my brain refused to do aught but call up, and recall, and recall again, that last meeting in Camslove Grange:
"I want the old place to have a good master.
"I want my son to be a gentleman.
"God bless you, old comrades."
Back they came, those old ghosts of the past, until the gentle, well-bred voice seemed even now appealing to me, and the well-loved form apparent before my eyes. And I writhed in my chair.
A little later the poet came in. He looked almost frightened, and spoke in a hushed voice.