Gaston rose also: his instinct of courtesy was acute--absurdly civilised--that is, primitive.

He waited.

"You are Robert's son ?" "Robert Belward was my father." "Your father is dead ?" "Twelve years ago." Sir William sank back in his chair.

His thin fingers ran back and forth along his lips.

Presently he took out his handkerchief and coughed into it nervously.