me--my very good friends tell me, that this is the mark of shame, the
bar sinister of the hand of justice. You know the story of our house."

"Somewhat of it," said Law.

"My brother is not served of the writ when Parliament is called. This
you know. Tell me why?"

"I know the so-called reason," replied John Law. "'Twas brought out in
his late case at the King's Bench."

"True. 'Twas said that my grandfather, past eighty, was not the father
of those children of his second wife. There is talk that--"

"'Twas three generations ago, this talk of the Knollys shortcoming. I am
not eighty. I am twenty-four, and I love you, Catharine Knollys."

"It was three generations ago," said the Lady Catharine, slowly and
musingly, as though she had not heard the speech of her suitor. "Three
generations ago. Yet never since then hath there been clean name for the
Banbury estate. Never yet hath its peer sat in his rightful place in
Parliament. And never yet hath eldest daughter of this house failed to
show this mark of shame, this unpurged contempt for that which is
ordained. Surely it would seem fate holds us in its hands."

"You tell me these things," said John Law, "because you feel it is right
to tell them. And I tell you of my future, as you tell me of your past.
Why? Because, Lady Catharine Knollys, it has already come to matter of
faith between us."