It appeared that his wife—who was still living—had presented him with Philip, now aged twenty-six, his father's private secretary and member for some Scotch borough; Sylvia, aged twenty-four, and unmarried; Robin, aged twenty-one, and in his last year at Oxford; and Michael, an enfant terrible of sixteen still at Winchester. I fancy there were no more; these were certainly all I ever met, either in Cadogan Square or Brandon Court.
In his public life I suppose Arthur Roden would be called a successful man. I remember him during the barren first few years of practice, but soon after my departure from England reports used to reach me showing the increasing volume of his work, until he became one of the busiest juniors on the Common Law side, reading briefs at four in the morning, and sending a clerk out to buy his new clothes. After taking silk at an early age, he had entered the House and been made Attorney-General in 1912.
"I was appointed the same day your brother was raised to the Bench," he told me.
"I should think he makes a pretty bad Judge," I suggested.
"Resolute," said Arthur. "We want firmness."
I knew what that meant. According to unsympathetic papers, Mr. Justice Merivale had conducted a Bloody Assize among the Militants of the Suffrage Army. When Roden prosecuted in person, there was short shrift indeed.
"We've killed militancy between us," he boasted.
"And I understand you're burnt together in effigy."
His face grew suddenly stern.
"They haven't stopped at that. There've been two attempts to fire Brandon Court, and one wing of your brother's house was burnt down a few weeks ago. I expect you found him rather shaken."