“I am your mother, David,” said Lady Thryng, reprovingly.

“You have reason to be proud of your son! Oh! curse me! I won’t be more of a cad than I am now by laying the blame on you. I could have helped it, but you couldn’t. We are born and bred that way, over here. The petty lines of distinction our ancestors drew for us, — we bow down and worship them, and say God drew them. Over here a man hides the sun with his own hand and then cries out, ‘Where is it?’“

“I would comfort you if I could, but this sounds very much like ranting. I thought you had outlived that sort of thing, my son.”

“Thank God, no. I’ve been very hard pressed of late, but I’ve not outlived it.”