'Of course I can. That's permanent. That's something to mend the
holes that the soldiers and the politicians are making. When the
war's become a nightmare that nobody wants to remember, those little
things'--he pointed to a group of Greek bronzes and terra-cottas on
a table near--'will still be the treasures of the world!'

In the yeasty deep of Sir Henry's honest mind emotions were rising
which he knew now he should not long be able to control. He took up
his hat and stick.

'I'm sorry, Mannering, that I have not been able to convince you.
I'm sorry for your point of view--and I'm sorry for your sons.'

The words slipped out of his mouth before he knew.

The Squire bounded.

'My sons! The one's a fire-eater, with whom you can't argue. The
other's a child--a babe--whom the Government proposes to murder
before he has begun to live.'

Sir Henry looked at the speaker, who had been violently flushed a
minute earlier, and was now as pale as himself, and then at the
sketch of Desmond, just behind the Squire. His eyes dropped; the
hurry in his blood subsided.

'Well, good-bye, Mannering. I'll--I'll do what I can to make things
easy for you.'

The Squire laughed angrily.