And Felix moved a little forward in his chair, his eyes fixed with
interest on Stanley, who was about to speak.

"It's that wife of his, of course. It was all very well so long as
she confined herself to writing, and talk, and that Land Society, or
whatever it was she founded, the one that snuffed out the other day; but
now she's getting herself and those two youngsters mixed up in our local
broils, and really I think Tod's got to be spoken to."

"It's impossible for a husband to interfere with his wife's principles."
So Felix.

"Principles!" The word came from John.

"Certainly! Kirsteen's a woman of great character; revolutionary
by temperament. Why should you expect her to act as you would act
yourselves?"

When Felix had said that, there was a silence.

Then Stanley muttered: "Poor old Tod!"

Felix sighed, lost for a moment in his last vision of his youngest
brother. It was four years ago now, a summer evening--Tod standing
between his youngsters Derek and Sheila, in a doorway of his white,
black-timbered, creepered cottage, his sunburnt face and blue eyes the
serenest things one could see in a day's march!

"Why 'poor'?" he said. "Tod's much happier than we are. You've only to
look at him."