They talked casually enough for the rest of the ride, and before they
parted at the door Frank received his commission for Regent Street, and
accepted it with delight, as a schoolboy might a gift. He was absurdly
grateful for any favours from her, any sign of her companionship. They
met at luncheon; then, because Lali had to keep an engagement in Eaton
Square, they parted again, and Frank and Richard took a walk, after a
long hour with the child, who still so hungered for his sword that Frank
disobeyed orders, and dragged Richard off to Oxford Street to get one.
He was reduced to a beatific attitude of submission, for he knew that he
had few odds with him now, and that he must live by virtue of new
virtues. He was no longer proud of himself in any way, and he knew that
no one else was, or rather he felt so, and that was just the same.

He talked of the boy, he talked of his wife, he laid plans, he tore them
down, he built them up again, he asked advice, he did not wait to hear
it, but rambled on, excited, eager. Truth is, there had suddenly been
lifted from his mind the dread and shadow of four years. Wherever he had
gone, whatever he had been or done, that dread shadow had followed him,
and now to know that instead of having to endure a hell he had to win a
heaven, and to feel as if his brain had been opened and a mass of vapours
and naughty little mannikins of remorse had been let out, was a trifle
intoxicating even to a man of his usual vigour and early acquaintance
with exciting things.

"Dick, Dick!" he said enthusiastically, "you've been royal. You always
were better than any chap I ever knew. You're always doing for others.
Hang it, Dick, where does your fun come in? Nobody seems ever to do
anything for you."

Richard gave his arm a squeeze. "Never mind about me, boy. I've had all