Denis and Lucy were married at the end of September. They went motoring in Italy for a month, and by the beginning of November were settled at Astleys. Astleys was in Berkshire, and was Urquhart's home. It was rather beautiful, as homes go, with a careless, prosperous grace about it at which Lucy laughed because it was so Urquhartesque.  
Almost at once they asked some people to stay there to help with the elections and the pheasant shooting. The elections were hoped for in December. Urquhart did not propose to bother much about them; he was a good deal more interested in the pheasants; but he had, of course, every intention of doing the usual and suitable things, and carrying the business through well. Lucy only laughed; to want to get into Parliament was so funny, looked at from the point of view she had always been used to. Denis, being used by inheritance and upbringing to another point of view, did not see that it was so funny; to him it was a very natural profession for a man to go into; his family had always provided a supply of members for both houses. Lucy and Peter, socially more obscure, laughed childishly together over it. "Fancy being a Liberal or a Conservative out of all the things there are in the world to be!" as Peter had once commented.
 
But it was delightfully¹ Urquhart-like, this lordly assumption of a share in the government of a country. No doubt it was worth having, because all the things Urquhart wanted and obtained were that; he had an eye for good things, like Peter, only he gained possession of them, and Peter could only admire from afar.
 
They were talking about the election prospects⁵ at dinner on the evening of the fifteenth of November. They were a young and merry party. At one end of the table was Denis, looking rather pale after a hard day's hunting, and very much amused with life; at the other Lucy, in a white frock, small and open-eyed like a flower, and very much amused too; and between them were the people, young mostly, and gay, who were staying with them. Lucy, who had been brought up in a secluded⁶ Bohemianism, found it very funny and nice having a house-party, and so many servants to see after them all that one needn't bother to run round and make sure everyone had soap, and so on.
 
One person, not young, who was staying there, was Lord Evelyn Urquhart. Lucy loved him. He loved her, and told funny stories. Sometimes, between the stories, she would catch his near-sighted, screwed up eyes scanning her face with a queer expression that might have been wistfulness; he seemed at times to be looking for something in her face, and finding it. Particularly when she laughed, in her chuckling⁷, gurgling way, he looked like this, and would grow grave suddenly. They had talked together about all manner of things, being excellent friends, but only once so far about Lucy's cousin Peter. Once had been too much, Lucy had found. The Margerisons were a tabooed subject with Lord Evelyn Urquhart.
 
Denis shrugged⁸ his shoulders over it. "They did him brown, you see," he explained, in his light, casual way. "Uncle Evelyn can't forgive that. And it's because he was so awfully⁹ fond of Peter that he's so bitter against him now. I never mention him; it's best not.... You know, you keep giving the poor dear shocks by looking like Peter, and laughing like him, and using his words. You are rather like, you know."
 
"I know," said Lucy. "It's not only looking and laughing and words; we think alike too. So perhaps if he gets fond of me he'll forgive Peter sometime."
 
"He's an implacable old beggar," Denis said. "It's stupid of him. It never seems to me worth while to get huffy; it's so uncomfortable. He expects too much of people, and when they disappoint him he—"
 
"Takes umbradge," Lucy filled in for him. That was another of Peter's expressions; they shared together a number of such stilted¹⁰, high-sounding phrases, mostly culled¹¹ either out of Adelphi melodrama¹² or the fiction of a by-gone age.
 
To-night, when the cloth had been removed that they might eat fruit, Denis was informed that there was a gentleman waiting to see him. The gentleman had not vouchsafed¹³ either his name or business, so he could obviously wait a little longer, till Denis had finished his own business. In twenty minutes Denis went to the library, and there found Hilary Margerison, sitting by the fire in a great coat and muffler and looking cold. When he rose and faced him, Denis saw that he also looked paler than of old, and thinner, and less perfectly¹⁴ shaved, and his hair was longer. He might have been called seedy-looking; he might have been Sidney Carton in "The Only Way"; he had always that touch of the dramatic about him that suggested a stage character. He had a bad cough.
 
"Oh," said Urquhart, polite and feeling embarrassed; "how do you do? I'm sorry to have kept you waiting; they didn't tell me who it was. Sit down, won't you?"
 
Hilary said thanks, he thought not. He had a keen sense of the fit. So he refused the cigarette Urquhart offered him, and stood by the fire, looking at the floor. Urquhart stood opposite him, and thought how ill and how little reputable he looked.
 
Hilary said, in his high, sweet, husky voice, "It is no use beating about the bush. I want help. We are in need; we are horribly hard up, to put it baldly. That has passed between your family and mine which makes you the last person I should wish to appeal to as a beggar. I propose a business transaction." He paused to cough.
 
Urquhart, feeling impatient at the prospect⁴ of a provoking interview when he wanted to be playing bridge, said "Yes?" politely.
 
"You," said Hilary, "are intending to stand as a candidate for this constituency. You require for that, I fancy, a reputation wholly untarnished; the least breath dimming it would be for you a disastrous¹⁵ calamity¹⁶. I have some information which, if sent to the local Liberal paper, would seriously tell against you in the public mind. It is here."
 
He took it out of his breast pocket and handed it to Urquhart—a type-written sheet of paper. He must certainly have been to a provincial¹⁷ theatre lately; he had hit its manners and methods to a nicety, the silly ass³.
 
Urquhart took the paper gingerly and did not look at it.
 
"Thanks; but ... I don't know that I am interested, do you know. Isn't this all rather silly, Mr. Margerison?"
 
"If you will oblige me by reading it," said Mr. Margerison.
 
So Urquhart obliged him. It was all about him, as was to be expected; enough to make a column of the Berkshire Press.
 
"Well?" said Hilary, when he had done.
 
"Well," said Urquhart, folding up the paper and returning it, "thank you for showing it me. But again I must say that I am not particularly interested. Of course you will send anything you like to any paper you like; it is no business of mine. There's the libel law, as of course you know; newspapers are as a rule rather careful about that. No respectable paper, I needn't say, would care to use such copy as this of yours.... Well, good night.... Oh, by the way, I suppose your brother told you all that?"
 
Hilary said, "I had it from various reliable sources." He stood uncertain, with wavering eyes, despair killing¹⁸ hope. "You will do nothing at all to save your reputation, then?"
 
Urquhart laughed, unamused, with hard eyes. He was intensely irritated.
 
"Do you think it likely? I don't care what you get printed in any dirty rag about me, man. Why on earth should I?"
 
The gulf¹⁹ between them yawned; it was unbridgeable. From Hilary's world insults might be shrieked²⁰ and howled, dirt thrown with all the strength of hate, and neither shrieks²¹ nor dirt would reach across the gulf to Urquhart's. They simply didn't matter. Hilary, realising this, grew slowly, dully red, with the bitterness of mortified²² expectation. Urquhart's look at him, supercilious²³, contemptuous, aloof²⁴, slightly disgusted, hurt his vanity. He caught at the only weapon he had which could hurt back.
 
"I must go and tell Peter, then, that his information has been of no use."
 
Urquhart said merely, "Peter won't be surprised. It's no good your trying to make me think that Peter is joining in this absurdity²⁶. He has too much sense of the ridiculous. He seems to have talked to you pretty freely of my concerns, which I certainly fancied he would keep to himself; I suppose he did that by way of providing entertaining conversation; Peter was always a chatterbox"—it was as well that Peter was not there to hear the edge in the soft, indifferent voice—"but he isn't quite such a fool as to have countenanced²⁷ this rather stagey proceeding²⁸ of yours. He knows me—used to know me—pretty well, you see.... Good night. You have plenty of time to catch your train, I think."
 
Hilary stopped to say, "Is that all you have to say? You won't let your connexion with our family—with Peter—induce you to help us in our need?... I've done an unpleasant thing to-night, you know; I've put my pride in my pocket and stooped to the methods of the cad, for the sake of my wife and little children. I admit I have made a mistake, both of taste and judgment²⁹; I have behaved unworthily; you may say like a fool. But are you prepared to see us go under—to drive by and leave us lying in the road, as you did to that old Tuscan peasant? Does it in no way affect your feelings towards us that you are now Peter's cousin by marriage—besides being practically, his half-brother?"
 
"I am not practically, or in any other way, Peter's half-brother," said Urquhart casually³⁰. "But that is neither here nor there. Peter and I are—have been—friends, as you know. I should naturally give him help if he asked me for it. He has not done so; all that has happened is that you have tried to blackmail³¹ me.... I really see no use in prolonging this interview, Mr. Margerison. Good night." Urquhart was bored and impatient with the absurd scene.
 
Into the middle of it walked Peter, pale and breathless. He stood by the door and looked at them, dazed and blinking at the light; looked at Urquhart, who stood leaning his shoulder against the chimney-piece, his hands in his pockets, the light full on his fair, tranquil³², bored face, and at Hilary, pale and tragic³³, with wavering, unhappy eyes. So they stood for a type and a symbol and a sign that never, as long as the world endures, shall Margerisons get the better of Urquharts.
 
They both looked at Peter, and Urquhart's brows rose a little, as if to say, "More Margerisons yet?"
 
Hilary said, "What's the matter, Peter? Why have you come?"
 
Peter said, rather faintly, "I meant to stop you before you saw Denis. I suppose I'm too late.... I made Peggy tell me. I found a paper, you see; and I asked Peggy, and she said you'd come down here to use it. Have you?"
 
"He has already done his worst," Denis's ironic³⁴ voice answered for him. "Sprung the awful threat upon me."
 
Peter leant back against the door, feeling rather sick. He had run all the way from the station; and, as always, he was too late.
 
Then he laughed a little. The contrast of Hilary's tragedian air and Urquhart's tranquil boredom³⁵ was upsetting to him.
 
Urquhart didn't laugh, but looked at him enquiringly.
 
"It's certainly funny rather," he said quietly. "You must have got a good deal of quiet fun out of compiling that column."
 
"Oh," said Peter. "But I didn't, you know."
 
"I gather you helped—supplied much of the information. That story of the old man I brutally³⁶ slew³⁷ and then callously³⁹ left uncared for on the road—you seem to have coloured that rather highly in passing it on.... I suppose it was stupid of me to fancy that you weren't intending to make that public property. Not that I particularly mind: there was nothing to be ashamed of in that business; but it somehow never happened to occur to me that you were relating it."
 
"I didn't," said Peter. "I have never told anyone."
 
Urquhart said nothing; his silence was expressive⁴⁰.
 
Peter stammered⁴¹ into speech incoherently.
 
"At least—at least—yes, I believe I did tell Peggy the story, months ago, in Venice—but I didn't say it was you. I merely said, if someone had done that ... what would she think? I wanted to know if she thought we ought to have found the old man's people and told them."
 
"I see," said Urquhart. "And did she?"
 
"No. She thought it was all right." Peter had known beforehand that Peggy would think it was all right; that was why he had asked her, to be reassured⁴², to have the vague trouble in his mind quieted.
 
And she, apparently⁴³, had seen through his futile⁴⁴ pretence⁴⁵, had known it was Urquhart he spoke⁴⁶ of, needed reassuring⁴⁷ about (Peter didn't realise that even less shrewd observers than Peggy might easily know when it was Urquhart he spoke of) and had gone and told Hilary. And Hilary, in his need, had twisted it into this disgusting story, and had typed it and brought it down to Astleys to-night, with other twisted stories.
 
"I suppose the rest too," said Urquhart, "you related to your sister-in-law t............