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Mr Blatherwick was astounded. That a letter from his brother-in-law should not contain a request for money was surprising; that it should contain a cheque, even for five pounds, was miraculous.

He opened the second letter. It was short, but full of the finest, noblest sentiments; to wit, that the writer, Charles J. Pickersgill, having heard the school so highly spoken of by his friend, Mr Herbert Baxter, would be glad if Mr Blatherwick could take in his three sons, aged seven, nine, and eleven respectively, at the earliest convenient date.

Mr Blatherwick’s first feeling was one of remorse that even in thought he should have been harsh to the golden-hearted Bertie. His next was one of elation.

Violet, meanwhile, stood patiently before him with the coffee. Mr Blatherwick helped himself. His eye fell on Violet.

Violet was a friendly, warm-hearted little thing. She saw that Mr Blatherwick had had good news; and, as the bearer of the letters which had contained it, she felt almost responsible. She smiled kindly up at Mr Blatherwick.

Mr Blatherwick’s dreamy hazel eye rested pensively upon her. The major portion of his mind was far away in the future, dealing with visions of a school grown to colossal proportions, and patronized by millionaires. The section of it which still worked in the present was just large enough to enable him to understand that he felt kindly, and even almost grateful, to Violet. Unfortunately it was too small to make him see how wrong it was to kiss her in a vague, fatherly way across the coffee tray just as James Datchett walked into the room.

James paused. Mr Blatherwick coughed. Violet, absolutely unmoved, supplied James with coffee, and bustled out of the room.

She left behind her a somewhat massive silence.

Mr Blatherwick coughed again.

‘It looks like rain,’ said James, carelessly.

‘Ah?’ said Mr Blatherwick.

‘Very like rain,’ said James.

‘Indeed!’ said Mr Blatherwick.

A pause.

‘Pity if it rains,’ said James.

‘True,’ said Mr Blatherwick.

Another pause.

‘Er–Datchett,’ said Mr Blatherwick.

‘Yes,’ said James.

‘I–er–feel that perhaps–‘

James waited attentively.

‘Have you sugar?’

‘Plenty, thanks,’ said James.

‘I shall be sorry if it rains,’ said Mr Blatherwick.

Conversation languished.

James laid his cup down.

‘I have some writing to do,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll be going upstairs now.’

‘Er–just so,’ said Mr Blatherwick, with relief. ‘Just so. An excellent idea.’

* * * * *

‘Er–Datchett,’ said Mr Blatherwick next day, after breakfast.

‘Yes?’ said James.

A feeling of content was over him this morning. The sun had broken through the clouds. One of the long envelopes which he had received on the previous night had turned out, on examination, to contain a letter from the editor accepting the story if he would reconstruct certain passages indicated in the margin.

‘I have–ah–unfortunately been compelled to dismiss Adolf,’ said Mr Blatherwick.

‘Yes?’ said James. He had missed Adolf’s shining morning face.

‘Yes. After you had left me last night he came to my study with a malicious–er–fabrication respecting yourself which I need not–ah–particularize.’

James looked pained. Awful thing it is, this nourishing vipers in one’s bosom.

‘Why, I’ve been giving Adolf English lessons nearly every day lately. No sense of gratitude, these foreigners,’ he said, sadly.

‘So I was compelled,’ proceeded Mr Blatherwick, ‘to–in fact, just so.’

James nodded sympathetically.

‘Do you know anything about West Australia?’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘It’s a fine country, I believe. I had thought of going there at one time.’

‘Indeed?’ said Mr Blatherwick.

‘But I’ve given up the idea now,’ said James.