"You make it your business to wound, Coryston."

"No, I simply tell you what I should have done. And I should have been
_absolutely in my right_!" He brought his hand down with passion
on the chair beside him. "My father had his way. In justice I--the next
generation--ought to have mine. These lands were not yours. You have no
moral rights over them whatever. They come from my father, and his father.
There is always something to be said for property, so long as each
generation is free to make its own experiments upon it. But if property
is to be locked in the dead hand, so that the living can't get at it,
_then_ it is what the Frenchman called it, _theft_!--or worse....
Well, I'm not going to take this quietly, I warn you. I refuse the seven
thousand a year! and if I can't possess the property--well!--I'm going to a
large extent to manage it!"

Lady Coryston started.

"Cony!" cried Marcia, passionately.

"I have a responsibility toward my father's property," said Coryston,
calmly. "And I intend to settle down upon it, and try and drum a few sound
ideas into the minds of our farmers and laborers. Owing to my absurd title
I can't stand for our parliamentary division--but I shall look out for
somebody who suits me, and run him. You'll find me a nuisance, mother, I'm
afraid. But you've done your best for your principles. Don't quarrel with
me if I do the best for mine. Of course I know it's hard for you. You would
always have liked to manage me. But I never could be managed--least of all
by a woman."

Lady Coryston rose from her seat.