“My dear Hugh,” said he, “what you have said pains me excessively-excessively.  I—­ahem—­fail to grasp it.  As an old friend of your family—­of your father—­I take the liberty of begging you to reconsider your words.”

Chiltern’s eyes blazed.

“Since you have mentioned my father, Mr. Simpson,” he exclaimed, “I may remind you that his son might reasonably have expected at your hands a different treatment than that you have accorded him.  You have asked me to reconsider my decision, but I notice that you have failed to inquire into my reasons for making it.  I came back here to Grenoble with every intention of devoting the best efforts of my life in aiding to build up the community, as my father had done.  It was natural, perhaps, that I should expect a little tolerance, a little friendliness, a little recognition in return.  My wife was prepared to help me.  We did not ask much.  But you have treated us like outcasts.  Neither you nor Mrs. Simpson, from whom in all conscience I looked for consideration and friendship, have as much as spoken to Mrs. Chiltern in church.  You have made it clear that, while you are willing to accept our contributions, you cared to have nothing to do with us whatever.  If I have overstated the case, please correct me.”

Mr. Simpson rose protestingly.

“My dear Hugh,” he said.  “This is very painful.  I beg that you will spare me.”

“My name is Chiltern,” answered Hugh, shortly.  “Will you kindly explain, if you can, why the town of Grenoble has ignored us?”

Israel Simpson hesitated a moment.  He seemed older when he looked at Chiltern again, and in his face commiseration and indignation were oddly intermingled.  His hand sought his watch chain.

“Yes, I will tell you,” he replied slowly, “although in all my life no crueller duty has fallen on me.  It is because we in Grenoble are old-fashioned in our views of morality, and I thank God we are so.  It is because you have married a divorced woman under circumstances that have shocked us.  The Church to which I belong, and whose teachings I respect, does not recognize such a marriage.  And you have, in my opinion, committed an offence against society.  To recognize you by social intercourse would be to condone that offence, to open the door to practices that would lead, in a short time, to the decay of our people.”

Israel Simpson turned, and pointed a shaking forefinger at the portrait of General Augus Chiltern.

“And I affirm here, fearlessly before you, that he, your father, would have been the last to recognize such a marriage.”

Chiltern took a step forward, and his fingers tightened.

“You will oblige me by leaving my father’s name out of this discussion,” he said.

But Israel Simpson did not recoil.