Filled as he was with conflicting emotions, any stretch of silence would be dangerous. He embraced her like her father once had. You desert your home; I throw up useful teaching, risk every hope in your career. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. Without her, it was lonely. But beyond "amicable agreement in which mutual concessions are made," the word "compromise" was as blank as the Canton wall at night.
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