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“So far we have not arranged anything for him beyond the age of fourteen. I now propose to read out a few general rules about his upbringing which we must insist on being observed.”

“The great question whether Simpson is kicked out of the house to-night, or leaves unobtrusively by the milk train to-morrow morning, is about to be settled,” I murmured.

“‘RULE ONE.–He must be brought up to be ambidextrous.’ It will be very useful,” explained Simpson, “when he fields cover for England.”

“Or when he wants to shake hands with two people at once,” said Archie.

“‘RULE TWO.–He must be taught from the first to speak French and German fluently.’ He’ll thank you for that later on when he goes abroad.”

“Or when he goes to the National Liberal Club,” said Archie.

“‘RULE THREE.–He should be surrounded as far as possible with beautiful things.’ Beautiful toys, beautiful wall-paper, beautiful scenery—-“

“Beautiful godfathers?” I asked doubtfully.

Simpson ignored me and went on hurriedly with the rest of his rules.

“Well,” said Archie, at the end of them, “they’re all fairly futile, but if you like to write them out neatly and frame them in gold I don’t mind hanging them up in the bathroom. Has anybody else got anything fatuous to say before the ladies leave us?”

I filled my glass.

“I’ve really got a lot to say,” I began, “because I consider that I’ve been rather left out of things. If you come to think of it, I’m the only person here who isn’t anything important, all the rest of you being godfathers, or godmothers, or mothers, or fathers, or something. However, I won’t dwell on that now. But there’s one thing I must say, and here it is.” I raised my glass. “Peter Blair Mannering, and may he grow up to be a better man than any of us!”

Upstairs, in happy innocence of the tremendous task in front of him, the child slept. Poor baby!

We drank solemnly, but without much hope.