He had made no answer at the time:  he never answered her back.  She was too frail to be angry with, and then she was right about his being the cause of her suffering—­the first cause of it, at least.  He had not yet arrived at the point where he censured himself for all that had happened.  In fact since Harry’s sudden exit, made without a word to anybody at Moorlands except his mother and Alec, who went to town on a hurry message,—­a slight which cut him to the quick—­he had steadily laid the blame on everybody else connected with the affair;—­generally on St. George for his interference in his peace-making programme at the club and his refusal, when ruined financially, to send the boy back to him in an humble and contrite spirit.  Neither had he recovered from the wrath he had felt when, having sent John Gorsuch to ascertain from St. George the amount of money he had paid out for his son, Temple had politely sent Gorsuch, in charge of Todd, downstairs to Pawson, who in turn, after listening to Todd’s whispered message, had with equal politeness shown Gorsuch the door, the colonel’s signed check—­the amount unfilled—­still in Gorsuch’s pocket.

It was only when the Lord of Moorlands went into town to spend an hour or so with Kate—­and he was a frequent visitor prior to his accident—­that his old manner returned.  He loved the girl dearly and was never tired of talking to her.  She was the only woman who would listen when he poured out his heart.

And Kate always welcomed him gladly.  She liked strong, decided men even if they sometimes erred in their conclusions.  Her grandfather, old Captain Barkeley, had had the same masterfulness.  He had been in absolute command in his earlier years, and he had kept in command all his life.  His word was law, and he was generally right.  She was twelve years old when he died, and had, therefore, ample opportunity to know.  It was her grandfather’s strong personality, in fact, which had given her so clear an idea of her father’s many weaknesses.  Rutter, she felt, was a combination of both Barkeley and Prim—­forceful and yet warped by prejudices; dominating yet intolerant; able to do big things and contented with little ones.  It was forcefulness, despite his many shortcomings, which most appealed to her.

Moreover, she saw much of Harry in him.  It was that which made her so willing to listen—­she continually comparing the father to the son.  These comparisons were invariably made in a circle, beginning at Rutter’s brown eyes, taking in his features and peculiarities—­many of them reproduced in his son’s—­such as the firm set of the lips and the square line of the chin—­and ending, quite naturally, with the brown orbs again.  While Harry’s matched the color and shape, and often the fierce glare of the father’s, they could also, she said to herself, shine with the soft light of the mother’s.  It was from the mother’s side, then, that there came the willingness to yield to whatever tempted