“Why Walter, dear?”
“He is strong and true,” said Stellamaris.
“Why not John, darling?”
Yes, why not John? Stella drew a sharp breath. Sir Oliver saved her an answer.
“John has enough to look to, poor chap. He has got everything about his ears. Stella's right. We want Walter. He's young. He's a good fellow, is Walter. I must be getting old, my dear,—” He raised his face, and, with a sudden forlorn hope of dignity, twirled his white moustache,—“A year ago I should n't have wanted Walter or anybody. It 's only you, my child, that your aunt and I are thinking of. We've tried to do our duty by you, have n't we, Julia? And God knows we love you. You 're the only thing in the world left to us. It is n't our fault that you are drawn into this ghastliness. It is n't, God knows it is n't. Only, my dear,”—there was a catch in his voice,—“you 're not able to bear it. For us old folks who have knocked about the world—well, we 're used to—to this sort of thing. I 've had to send men to the gallows in my time—once twenty men to be shot. The paltry fellows at the Colonial Office did n't see things as I did, but that's another matter. We 're used to these things, dear; we 're hardened—”
“If I have got to live in the world, dear Excellency,” said Stella, feeling that there were some sort of flood-gates between the tumultuous flow of her being and the still waters of pity in which for the moment her consciousness acted, “it seems that I must get used to it, like every one else.”
“But what shall we do, darling?” cried Lady Blount, clinging pathetically to the child of sea foam, from whom all knowledge of the perilous world had been hidden.
“Anything but worry Walter to come down here.”
“I thought you wanted him?”
“I do,” said Stella, with her hand on her bosom; “but that is only selfishness. He is needed more in London. I think we ought to go up and see if we can help in any way.”