“In fact you have three,” replied the Viscount disconcertingly. “Not that it has ever seemed to me that they gladdened you precisely, but I do feel it to be only just to Griselda that her offspring should be mentioned!”

“Girls!” snapped the Earl, sweeping them aside with a contemptuous gesture. “I take no account of them! Besides, they’re Broxbourne brats! What I want is sons, Ashley! Carringtons, to succeed to our Name, and our Honours, and our Tradition!”

“But scarcely a score of them!” protested the Viscount. “One must be reasonable, sir, and even if I had obliged you by marrying when I was twenty, and my unfortunate wife had presented me with twins every year, you must still have been at least two short of your expectation—setting aside the probability that there would have been several girls amongst such a bevy of grandchildren.”

This attempt to win his parent out of his ill-humour might have succeeded (for the Earl was fond of the ridiculous) had not a sudden twinge in his afflicted foot caused him to wince, and to utter in a menacing voice: “Don’t be impertinent, sir! I would remind you that you—I thank God!—are not my only son!”

“No,” agreed the Viscount, with unruffled cordiality. “And while I can’t but feel that Simon is too young to be setting up his nursery I have great hopes that Horace may oblige you—when the Occupation ends, as, from all accounts, it will do in the not too far distant future—and he returns to us.”

“Horace!” uttered his lordship. “I may think myself fortunate if he doesn’t come home with some French hussy on his arm!”

“Oh, I don’t think that very likely!” said the Viscount. “He is not at all partial to foreigners, sir, and quite as mindful of what is due to the Family as you are.”