'I recommend you to stick it, Desmond. It won't last long. I've got
my part to play, and you've got yours. You fight because they make
you.'
'I _don't!_' said the boy passionately. 'I fight because--'
Then his words broke down. He descended from the table.
'Well, all right, father. I suppose it's no good talking. Only if
you think I shan't mind if you get yourself put in quad, you're
jolly well mistaken. Hullo, Forest! I'm coming!'
He hurried off, the Squire moving slowly after him. In the hour
before the boy departed he was the spoilt darling of his sisters and
the servants, who hung round him, and could not do enough for him.
He endured it, on the whole, patiently dashing out at the very end
to say good-bye to an old gardener, once a keeper, with whom he used
to go ferreting in the park. To his father alone his manner was not
quite as usual. It was the manner of one who had been hurt. The
Squire felt it.
As to his elder son, he and Aubrey parted without any outward sign
of discord, and on the way to London Aubrey, with the dry detachment
that was natural to him in speaking of himself, told the story of
the preceding twenty-four hours to the eager Desmond's sympathetic
ears.
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