Besides which, as I say, it would be a blessing all round; and there’s no need to do anything harsh or unpleasant. You can suggest some arrangement. Henry might travel for a bit, on whatever more you could let him have, and we might pay him rent for a while and then see what could be done when we had room to turn round.”

“Yes,” her husband had answered, “Yes … Something of that sort could be done … Certainly.”

Something of that sort had occurred to him also, Had it not? Vaguely? All but £18,000 was due: allow Henry another £2,000 odd. After all, as land now was, £20,000 was a very fair amount to allow for Rackham: if anything too much. There was an enormous amount wanted doing to the place—he was already beginning to think of it almost as his own. As for his wife, she was there in spirit already; ordering the place about, renewing it from cellar to roof, and a squire’s wife, as she should be. Moreover, she was the good angel of poor Henry, and of his unfortunate little son. She was saving them from a terrible future.

William had sat up late that night in his study, getting all the papers in order, setting down the main figures in an exceedingly clear and plain fashion. The next day, he had invited himself to Rackham, and the day after he had driven from the station in the old brougham behind the old horse with the old coachman, up the dilapidated drive, to the door which had not been painted since the triumphant conquest of the Boer Republics, and the nasty slump in Chartereds.

So there William Maple was, on that Sunday evening of August, 1913, sitting over brother Henry’s wine and making himself ready for an explanation.

“Is that the same port?” he said.

“Yes,” Henry answered, taking up his glass and looking through it at a candle.

“I thought it had gone off. Father laid it down the day you got into the Eight,” said William.

Henry nodded.

“There is no reason why it should have gone off, though it wasn’t a particularly good year. Anyhow, it’s all right still.”

The curtains were not drawn, the big ugly windows of the dining-room were open to the warm August night. The mahogany reflected the glass ware and the silver. Henry’s eye rested, unseeing, upon the crest the fortunate smith and cattle dealer had arranged for, more than a century ago. It was a scene unchanged; just what it had been for the last thirty years and more, as far back as the two men could remember, save for the slightly dingier tint of the walls and the irregular, patchy fading of the red damask of the curtains. Other little details William now oddly noticed, though Henry could not have told him they were there: one of the bell handles had gone from the side of the fire-place leaving an iron stump, and poor old helmeted Minerva upon a bracket (Italian she had been, and brought over after the French wars) had lost the tip of her nose.

The silence could not go on for ever, and William braced himself to speak. It was no great effort for him, after all. He had had to do such things twenty times before, though never in such surroundings nor with the difficulty—slight to him, but still present—of imperilling the associations of childhood.

“Henry,” he said rather too suddenly, “I want to talk to you about your own affairs.”

“Yes,” said Henry gently. “Yes.…what?”

He had no particular dread of what was coming; he thought it might be another loan, and that would not be unwelcome. There had been another little trouble. The water-mill absolutely must be seen to, and he was afraid it would cost a good deal. George Barrett, the miller, had spoken of it twice.

“Henry,” continued William, “I think the time really has come when we must take stock.”

It was not quite what Henry had expected. He looked up rather startled and a little bewildered. But he felt the justice of it. After all, they had not “taken stock” at all at any tme. William took from his mouth the end of the cigar he had been smoking and ground it slowly on his plate. He felt in his pocket for papers, but thought better of it. Looking down at the cloth, so as to avoid his brother’s eye, he said:

“The total amount, Henry, counting the arrears of interest, you know, is £17,324 odd.” He paused a minute—“£17,324 … odd.” Then he pulled out a half sheet of paper which he had hesitated at just before, pushed his plate aside, spread the figures out before him, and repeated, “Yes, £17,324 14s. and 3d.”

What had floated in Henry’s mind for so long was a fixed figure in large print—£10,000. And after it—in a sort of blur—something or other that might be a few thousand more. £17,324 pulled him up.