“Well, father!” he said, smiling.

The older man turned his head, then turned it away as his son drew up a chair and laid a stick across the andirons.

“It’s turned a little chilly,” he said.

“I have known of many a frost in May,” said his father.

There was a silence; then his father slowly turned and gazed at him.

“How is—­Miss West?” he asked stiffly.

“Billy Ogilvy says she will be all right to-morrow, father.”

“Was she injured by her unfortunate experience?”

“A little briar-torn, I’m afraid.  Those big beech woods are rather a puzzle to anybody who is not familiar with the country.  No wonder she became frightened when it grew dark.”

“It was—­very distressing,” nodded his father.

They remained silent again until Mr. Neville rose, took off his spectacles, laid aside The Evening Post, and held out his hand.

“Good-night, my son.”

“Good-night, father.”

“Yes—­yes—­good-night—­good-night—­to many, many things, my son; old-fashioned things of no value any more—­of no use to me, or you, or anybody any more.”

He retained his son’s hand in his, peering at him, dim-eyed, without his spectacles: 

“The old order passes—­the old ideas, the old beliefs—­and the old people who cherished them—­who know no others, needed no others....  Good-night, my son.”

But he made no movement to leave, and still held to his son’s hand: 

“I’ve tried to live as blamelessly as my father lived, Louis—­and as God has given me to see my way through life....  But—­the times change so—­change so.  The times are perplexing; life grows noisier, and stranger and more complex and more violent every day around us—­and the old require repose, Louis.  Try to understand that.”

“Yes, father.”

The other looked at him, wearily: 

“Your mother seems to think that your happiness in life depends on—­what we say to you—­this evening.  Stephanie seems to believe it, too....  Lily says very little....  And so do I, Louis—­very little ... only enough to—­to wish you—­happiness.  And so—­good-night.”

CHAPTER XV

It was barely daylight when Valerie awoke.  She lay perfectly still, listening, remembering, her eyes wandering over the dim, unfamiliar room.  Through thin silk curtains a little of the early light penetrated; she heard the ceaseless chorus of the birds, cocks crowing near and far away, the whimpering flight of pigeons around the eaves above her windows, and their low, incessant cooing.

Suddenly, through the foot-bars of her bed she caught sight of Stephanie lying sound asleep on the couch, and she sat up—­swiftly, noiselessly, staring at her out of wide eyes from which the last trace of dreams had fled.

For a long while she remained upright among her pillows, looking at Stephanie, remembering, considering; then, with decision, she slipped silently out of bed, and went about her dressing without a sound.