namely, that Derrick had gone through with it like a Trojan, that he
had smiled and congratulated in his quiet way, and had done the best
to efface himself and think only of Freda. But as everyone knows:

"Face joy's a costly mask to wear,
'Tis bought with pangs long nourished
And rounded to despair;"

and he looked now even more worn and old than he had done at Ben
Rhydding in the first days of his trouble.

However, he turned resolutely away from the subject I had introduced
and began to discuss titles for his novel.

"It's impossible to find anything new," he said, "absolutely
impossible. I declare I shall take to numbers."

I laughed at this prosaic notion, and we were still discussing the
title when we reached home.

"Don't say anything about it at lunch," he said as we entered. "My
father detests my writing."

I nodded assent and opened the sitting-room door--a strong smell of
brandy instantly became apparent; the Major sat in the green velvet
chair, which had been wheeled close to the hearth. He was drunk.

Derrick gave an ejaculation of utter hopelessness.

"This will undo all the good of Ben Rhydding!" he said. "How on