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Both these papers had continually and violently attacked the connection of one of our few great statesmen with the last of the vast enterprises of Empire. The Capon, whose editor was a young man with very wild eyes and hair like a weeping willow, attacked it on principle. The Moon—whose proprietor was an intimate friend of Sir Charles’ own—was more practical, and attacked the connection between Repton and the Company with good old personalities worthy of a more virile age.

Well then, at this hour of half-past nine on that March day of 1915, Charles Repton rose from his breakfast. He touched the crumbs upon his waistcoat so that they fell, and those upon his trousers also. He looked severely at the footman in the hall, who quailed a little at that glance, he rapidly put on his coat unaided, and asked briefly to see the butler.

The butler came.

“I’m out to lunch.”

“Yes, Sir Charles.”

“Tell Parker that if one of my letters is ever left again on the table after I have gone, I shall speak to Lady Repton.”