“Well, Sir,” said Clifford uneasily, but with strange bright eyes. “There is a hope. There is a hope.”

Winter came across the room and wrung Clifford’s hand.

“My dear boy, my dear lad, can you believe what it means to me, to hear that! And to hear you are working in the hopes of a son: and that you may again employ every man at Tevershall. Ah my boy! to keep up the level of the race, and to have work waiting for any man who cares to work!⁠—”

The old man was really moved.

Next day Connie was arranging tall yellow tulips in a glass vase. “Connie,” said Clifford, “did you know there was a rumour that you are going to supply Wragby with a son and heir?”

Connie felt dim with terror, yet she stood quite still, touching the flowers.

“No!” she said. “Is it a joke? Or malice?”