with a sight of his son, a son who had been a credit to him. And he was
willing to pocket pride, to call for help from the last source he would
have chosen, if that would avail.

He crossed the lawn, waited a few seconds till the piano ceased its
syncopated frenzy and the dancers stopped.

Betty Gower herself opened at his knock.

"Is Mr. Gower here?" he asked.

"Yes. Won't you come in?" she asked courteously.

The door opened direct into a great living room, from the oak floor of
which the rugs had been rolled aside for dancing. As MacRae came in out
of the murk along the cliffs, his one good eye was dazzled at first.
Presently he made out a dozen or more persons in the room,--young people
nearly all. They were standing and sitting about. One or two were in
khaki--officers. There seemed to be an abrupt cessation of chatter and
laughing at his entrance. It did not occur to him at once that these
people might be avidly curious about a strange young man in the uniform
of the Flying Corps. He apprehended that curiosity, though, politely
veiled as it was. In the same glance he became aware of a middle-aged
woman sitting on a couch by the fire. Her hair was pure white,
elaborately arranged, her eyes were a pale blue, her skin very delicate
and clear. Her face somehow reminded Jack MacRae of a faded rose leaf.

In a deep armchair near her sat Horace Gower. A young man, a very young
man, in evening clothes, holding a long cigarette daintily in his
fingers, stood by Gower.