Now all this kind of thing was a little disconcerting to remember now.  Truly, the things in themselves had been admirably conceived and faithfully executed, but they seemed to show that Frank was the kind of person who really carried through what other people only talked about—­and especially if he announced beforehand that he intended to do it.

It was a little dismaying, therefore, for his friend to reflect that upon the arrival of the famous letter from Lord Talgarth—­Frank’s father—­six days previously, in which all the well-worn phrases occurred as to “darkening doors” and “roof” and “disgrace to the family,” Frank had announced that he proposed to take his father at his word, sell up his property and set out like a prince in a fairy-tale to make his fortune.

* * * * *

Jack had argued till he was sick of it, and to no avail.  Frank had a parry for every thrust.  Why wouldn’t he wait a bit until the governor had had time to cool down?  Because the governor must learn, sooner or later, that words really meant something, and that he—­Frank—­was not going to stand it for one instant.

Why wouldn’t he come and stay at Barham till further notice?  They’d all be delighted to have him:  It was only ten miles off Merefield, and perhaps—­Because Frank was not going to sponge upon his friends.  Neither was he going to skulk about near home.  Well, if he was so damned obstinate, why didn’t he go into the City—­or even to the Bar?  Because (1) he hadn’t any money; and (2) he would infinitely sooner go on the tramp than sit on a stool.  Well, why didn’t he enlist, like a gentleman?  Frank dared say he would some time, but he wanted to stand by himself a bit first and see the world.

“Let’s see the letter again,” said Jack at last.  “Where is it?”

Frank reflected.

“I think it’s in that tobacco-jar just behind your head,” he said.  “No, it isn’t; it’s in the pouch on the floor.  I know I associated it somehow with smoking.  And, by the way, give me a cigarette.”

Jack tossed him his case, opened the pouch, took out the letter, and read it slowly through again.

“Merefield Court,
“near Harrogate. 
“May 28th, Thursday.

“I am ashamed of you, sir.  When you first told me of your intention, I warned you what would happen if you persisted, and I repeat it now.  Since you have deliberately chosen, in spite of all that I have said, to go your own way, and to become a Papist, I will have no more to do with you.  From this moment you cease to be my son.  You shall not, while I live, darken my doors again, or sleep under my roof.  I say nothing of what you have had from me in the past—­your education and all the rest.  And, since I do not wish to be unduly hard upon you, you can keep the remainder of your allowance up to July and the furniture of your rooms.  But, after that, not one penny shall you have from me.  You can go to your priests and get them to support you.

“I am only thankful that your poor mother has been spared this
blow.