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this was a helpless gesture. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, “but I’m afraid that that sentiment has the advantage of sounding well and meaning nothing.”
    “Don’t be so bloody supercilious.”
    “All right, George, all right.”
    “The more I think of this the worse it gets. Look here, Maurice, if for no other reason, in common decency…”
    “I’ve tried to take common decency as my criterion.”
    “It’ll kill my mother.”
    “It will distress her very deeply, I know. I’ve thought of her, too.”
    “And Mark? Ruin! A young man! My son! Starting on his career.”
    “There was another young man, an only son, who was starting on his career.”
    “He’s dead!” George cried out. “He can’t suffer. He’s dead.”
    “And
his
name? And
his
father?”
    “I can’t chop logic with you. I’m a simple sort of bloke with, I daresay, very unfashionable standards. I believe in the loyalty of friends and in the old families sticking together.”
    “At whatever the cost to other friends and other old families? Come off it, George,” said the Colonel.
    The colour flooded back into George’s face until it was empurpled. He said in an unrecognizable voice, “Give me my father’s manuscript. Give me that envelope. I demand it.”
    “I can’t, old boy. Good God, do you suppose that if I could chuck it away or burn it with anything like a clear conscience I wouldn’t do it? I tell you I hate this job.”
    He returned the envelope to the breast pocket of his coat. “You’re free, of course,” he said, “to talk this over with Lady Lacklander and Mark. Your father made no reservations about that. By the way, I’ve brought a copy of his letter in case you decide to tell them about it. Here it is.” The Colonel produced a third envelope, laid it on the desk and moved towards the door. “And George,” he said, “I beg you to believe I am sorry. I’m deeply sorry. If I could see any other way, I’d thankfully take it. What?”
    George Lacklander had made an inarticulate noise. He now pointed a heavy finger at the Colonel.
    “After this,” he said, “I needn’t tell you that any question of an understanding between your girl and my boy is at an end.”
    The Colonel was so quiet for so long that both men became aware of the ticking of a clock on the chimney breast.
    “I didn’t know,” he said at last, “that there was any question of an understanding. I think you must be mistaken.”
    “I assure you that I am not. However, we needn’t discuss it. Mark… and Rose, I am sure… will both see that it is quite out of the question. No doubt you are as ready to ruin her chances as you are to destroy our happiness.” For a moment he watched the Colonel’s blank face. “She’s head over heels in love with him,” he added; “you can take my word for it.”
    “If Mark has told you this…”
    “Who says Mark told me?… I… I…”
    The full, rather florid voice faltered and petered out.
    “Indeed,” the Colonel said. “Then may I ask where you got your information?”
    They stared at each other and, curiously, the look of startled conjecture which had appeared on George Lacklander’s face was reflected on the Colonel’s. “It couldn’t matter less, in any case,” the Colonel said. “Your informant, I am sure, is entirely mistaken. There’s no point in my staying. Goodbye.”
    He went out. George, transfixed, saw him walk past the window. A sort of panic came over him. He dragged the telephone across his desk and with an unsteady hand dialled Colonel Cartarette’s number. A woman’s voice answered.
    “Kitty!” he said. “Kitty, is that you?”
    Colonel Cartarette went home by the right-of-way known as the River Path. It ran through Nunspardon from the top end of Watt’s Lane skirting the Lacklander’s private golf course. It wound down to Bottom Bridge and up the opposite side to the Cartarette’s spinney. From thence it crossed the lower portion of Commander Syce’s and