They discussed the collieries. Clifford’s idea was, that his coal, even the poor sort, could be made into hard concentrated fuel that would burn at great heat if fed with certain damp, acidulated air at a fairly strong pressure. It had long been observed that in a particularly strong, wet wind the pit–bank burned very vivid, gave off hardly any fumes, and left a fine powder of ash, instead of the slow pink gravel.

‘But where will you find the proper engines for burning your fuel?’ asked Winter.

‘I’ll make them myself. And I’ll use my fuel myself. And I’ll sell electric power. I’m certain I could do it.’

‘If you can do it, then splendid, splendid, my dear boy. Haw! Splendid! If I can be of any help, I shall be delighted. I’m afraid I am a little out of date, and my collieries are like me. But who knows, when I’m gone, there may be men like you. Splendid! It will employ all the men again, and you won’t have to sell your coal, or fail to sell it. A splendid idea, and I hope it will be a success. If I had sons of my own, no doubt they would have up–to–date ideas for Shipley: no doubt! By the way, dear boy, is there any foundation to the rumour that we may entertain hopes of an heir to Wragby?’

‘Is there a rumour?’ asked Clifford.

‘Well, my dear boy, Marshall from Fillingwood asked me, that’s all I can say about a rumour. Of course I wouldn’t repeat it for the world, if there were no foundation.’

‘Well, Sir,’ said Clifford uneasily, but with strange bright eyes. ‘There is a hope. There is a hope.’

Winter came across the room and wrung Clifford’s hand.

‘My dear boy, my dear lad, can you believe what it means to me, to hear that! And to hear you are working in the hopes of a son: and that you may again employ every man at Tevershall. Ah, my boy! to keep up the level of the race, and to have work waiting for any man who cares to work!—’

The old man was really moved.

Next day Connie was arranging tall yellow tulips in a glass vase.

‘Connie,’ said Clifford, ‘did you know there was a rumour that you are going to supply Wragby with a son and heir?’

Connie felt dim with terror, yet she stood quite still, touching the flowers.

‘No!’ she said. ‘Is it a joke? Or malice?’

He paused before he answered:

‘Neither, I hope. I hope it may be a prophecy.’

Connie went on with her flowers.

‘I had a letter from Father this morning,’ She said. ‘He wants to know if I am aware he has accepted Sir Alexander Cooper’s Invitation for me for July and August, to the Villa Esmeralda in Venice.’

‘July AND August?’ said Clifford.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t stay all that time. Are you sure you wouldn’t come?’

‘I won’t travel abroad,’ said Clifford promptly. She took her flowers to the window.