About a week later, the party gathered for afternoon tea in the great hall at Llandiarmid Castle were startled by the entrance of a visitor, who opened the front door and walked in unannounced.
“Uncle Cyril!” cried Usk.
“Cyril, old man!” exclaimed his father. “My dear fellow, why didn’t you telegraph, and let us send the carriage for you?”
“I didn’t care to make a fuss. No, Caerleon, I am not quite a fool. I came here in a fly, not plodding through the mud. Nadia, you look younger than your daughter. Phil, do you still consider it a compliment to be told you are more like your father than ever? Mr Mansfield, how are you? I have seen you and Usk so recently that I really can’t perceive any changes at the moment that ought to be remarked upon. Caerleon, do sit down, old man, and don’t grip my shoulder like that. I assure you that I am flesh and blood, and not my own ghost.”
“You have cut Thracia for good and all?” asked Caerleon, sitting down opposite his brother, but avoiding looking at him.
“I suppose so—or rather, it has cut me. I have refused their pension, at any rate.”
“Right! I’m delighted to hear it.”
“No more questions any one wants to ask, are there? You know that old Drakovics has returned to nominal power, with Vassili as an under-study of all work?”
“Did all your men go over to him?”
“Most did; but Georgeivics and old Mirkovics resigned. I pointed out to them that it was foolish; but they would do it.”