Above the huge fireplace, with light
falling on one side of his shaven face, hung a portrait--painter
unknown--of that Cardinal Caradoc who suffered for his faith in the
sixteenth century. Ascetic, crucified, with a little smile clinging to
the lips and deep-set eyes, he presided, above the bluefish flames of a
log fire.
Father and son found some difficulty in beginning.
Each of those two felt as though he were in the presence of someone
else's very near relation. They had, in fact, seen extremely little of
each other, and not seen that little long.
Lord Valleys uttered the first remark:
"Well, my dear fellow, what are you going to do now? I think we can make
certain of this seat down here, if you like to stand."
Miltoun had answered: "Thanks, very much; I don't think so at present."
Through the thin fume of his cigar Lord Valleys watched that long figure
sunk deep in the chair opposite.
"Why not?" he said. "You can't begin too soon; unless you think you
ought to go round the world."
"Before I can become a man of it?"
Lord Valleys gave a rather disconcerted laugh.
"There's nothing in politics you can't pick up as you go along," he
said. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-four."
"You look older." A faint line, as of contemplation, rose between his
eyes. Was it fancy that a little smile was hovering about Miltoun's
lips?
"I've got a foolish theory," came from those lips, "that one must know
the conditions first.
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