Lieutenant¹ Sutch, though he went late to bed, was early astir in the morning. He roused the household, packed and repacked his clothes, and made such a bustle² and confusion that everything to be done took twice its ordinary time in the doing. There never had been so much noise and flurry in the house during all the thirty years of Lieutenant Sutch's residence. His servants could not satisfy him, however quickly they scuttled³ about the passages in search of this or that forgotten article of his old travelling outfit⁴. Sutch, indeed, was in a boyish fever of excitement. It was not to be wondered at, perhaps. For thirty years he had lived inactive—on the world's half-pay list, to quote his own phrase; and at the end of all that long time, miraculously⁵, something had fallen to him to do—something important, something which needed energy and tact⁶ and decision. Lieutenant Sutch, in a word, was to be employed again. He was feverish⁷ to begin his employment. He dreaded⁸ the short interval⁹ before he could begin, lest some hindrance¹⁰ should unexpectedly occur and relegate¹¹ him again to inactivity.  
"I shall be ready this afternoon," he said briskly to Durrance as they breakfasted. "I shall catch the night mail to the Continent. We might go up to London together; for London is on your way to Wiesbaden."
 
"No," said Durrance, "I have just one more visit to pay in England. I did not think of it until I was in bed last night. You put it into my head."
 
"Oh," observed Sutch, "and whom do you propose to visit?"
 
"General Feversham," replied Durrance.
 
Sutch laid down his knife and fork and looked with surprise at his companion. "Why in the world do you wish to see him?" he asked.
 
"I want to tell him how Harry¹² has redeemed¹³ his honour, how he is still redeeming¹⁴ it. You said last night that you were bound by a promise not to tell him anything of his son's intention, or even of his son's success until the son returned himself. But I am bound by no promise. I think such a promise bears hardly on the general. There is nothing in the world which could pain him so much as the proof that his son was a coward. Harry might have robbed and murdered. The old man would have preferred him to have committed both these crimes. I shall cross into Surrey this morning and tell him that Harry never was a coward."
 
Sutch shook his head.
 
"He will not be able to understand. He will be very grateful to you, of course. He will be very glad that Harry has atoned¹⁵ his disgrace, but he will never understand why he incurred¹⁶ it. And, after all, he will only be glad because the family honour is restored."
 
"I don't agree," said Durrance. "I believe the old man is rather fond of his son, though to be sure he would never admit it. I rather like General Feversham."
 
Lieutenant Sutch had seen very little of General Feversham during the last five years. He could not forgive him for his share in the responsibility of Harry Feversham's ruin. Had the general been capable of sympathy with and comprehension of the boy's nature, the white feathers would never have been sent to Ramelton. Sutch pictured the old man sitting sternly on his terrace at Broad Place, quite unaware¹⁷ that he was himself at all to blame, and on the contrary, rather inclined to pose as a martyr¹⁸, in that his son had turned out a shame and disgrace to all the dead Fevershams whose portraits hung darkly on the high walls of the hall. Sutch felt that he could never endure to talk patiently with General Feversham, and he was sure that no argument would turn that stubborn man from his convictions. He had not troubled at all to consider whether the news which Durrance had brought should be handed on to Broad Place.
 
"You are very thoughtful for others," he said to Durrance.
 
"It's not to my credit. I practise thoughtfulness for others out of an instinct of self-preservation, that's all," said Durrance. "Selfishness is the natural and encroaching fault of the blind. I know that, so I am careful to guard against it."
 
He travelled accordingly that morning by branch lines from Hampshire into Surrey, and came to Broad Place in the glow of the afternoon. General Feversham was now within a few months of his eightieth year, and though his back was as stiff and his figure as erect¹⁹ as on that night now so many years ago when he first presented Harry to his Crimean friends, he was shrunken in stature²⁰, and his face seemed to have grown small. Durrance had walked with the general upon his terrace only two years ago, and blind though he was, he noticed a change within this interval of time. Old Feversham walked with a heavier step, and there had come a note of puerility²¹ into his voice.
 
"You have joined the veterans before your time, Durrance," he said. "I read of it in a newspaper. I would have written had I known where to write."
 
If he had any suspicion of Durrance's visit, he gave no sign of it. He rang the bell, and tea was brought into the great hall where the portraits hung. He asked after this and that officer in the Soudan with whom he was acquainted, he discussed the iniquities²² of the War Office, and feared that the country was going to the deuce.
 
"Everything through ill-luck or bad management is going to the devil, sir," he exclaimed irritably²³. "Even you, Durrance, you are not the same man who walked with me on my terrace two years ago."
 
The general had never been remarkable²⁴ for tact, and the solitary²⁵ life he led had certainly brought no improvement. Durrance could have countered with a tu quoque, but he refrained.
 
"But I come upon the same business," he said.
 
Feversham sat up stiffly in his chair.
 
"And I give you the same answer. I have nothing to say about Harry Feversham. I will not discuss him."
 
He spoke²⁶ in his usual hard and emotionless voice. He might have been speaking of a stranger. Even the name was uttered without the slightest ............