Sir John Meredith had taught his son that Self and Self alone reigns
in the world. He had taught him that the thing called Love, with a
capital L, is nearly all Self, and that it finally dies in the arms
of Self. He had told him that a father's love, or a son's, or a
mother's, is merely a matter of convenience, and vanishes when Self
asserts itself.
Upon this principle they were both acting now, with a strikingly
suggestive similarity of method. Neither was willing to admit to
the world in general, and to the other in particular, that a cynical
theory could possibly be erroneous.
"I am sorry that our young friend is going to leave us," said Sir
John, taking up and unfolding the morning paper. "He is honest and
candid, if he is nothing else."
This meant that Guy Oscard's admiration for Millicent Chyne had
never been concealed for a moment, and Lady Cantourne knew it.
"He interests me," went on the old aristocrat, studying the
newspaper; and his hearer knew the inner significance of the remark.
At times she was secretly ashamed of her niece, but that esprit de
corps which binds women together prompted her always to defend
Millicent. The only defence at the moment was silence, and an
assumed density which did not deceive Sir John--even she could not
do that.
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