.  on the other hand, they may be anxious. . . .”

“I understand.  You can’t ever be certain how people will react, can you?”

“No, sir.”

“You should have brought an extra cup for yourself.  Sit down and tell me all about it.  What time did YOU go to bed?  You look fagged out.”

“To tell you the truth, I haven’t been to bed at all.  There were so many things to do—I had to talk to Dr. Sanderstead—and then your clothes—you’d hardly wish to wear them again, I think.”

“No?”

“I took the liberty of borrowing a suit from Mr. Chetwynd—“

“Look here, never mind about all that—let’s have first things first.  You told them all?”

“Not your father, sir—but I told the others.”

“How did they take it?”

“They were naturally surprised—in fact they could hardly believe me at first.”

“And then?”

“Well, I suppose they DID believe me—eventually.  They expect to see you at breakfast.”

“Good . . . but you say you haven’t yet told my father?”

“That was why I went to see Dr. Sanderstead—to ask his advice.”

“Ah yes, of course.  You always think of the sensible things, Sheldon.”

“He was rather troubled about the danger of giving the old gentleman a shock—he says he’d like to have a talk with you about it first.”

“All right, if he says so.”

“I also took the liberty of telephoning to Mr. Truslove.”

“Truslove?”

“It seemed to me that—er—he ought to be informed also, as soon as possible.”

“Well, maybe that’s sensible too, though it hadn’t occured to me. . . .  How about a bath?”

“Already waiting for you—if you’ll follow me.”

“What about the servants, if I meet any of them?”

“They don’t know yet, except Wilson and Lucas—I shall call the others together during the morning and tell them.  And Mr. Truslove will be here for lunch—along with Dr. Sanderstead and Dr. Astley from London.”

By that time they were at the door of the bathroom.  “Quite elegant, Sheldon—new since I was here, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“From which I gather the family income remains—er—not so bad?”

A wrinkled smile.  “Like the barometer, sir—still rising. . . .”

He bathed, smoked a cigarette, and put on the clothes Sheldon had laid out for him.  Brown tweeds—Chet had always favoured them, and they fitted pretty well—as children he and Chet could generally wear each other’s suits.  And a Netherton tie—trust Sheldon to think of details.  NETHERTON; and a whole cloud of memories assailed him suddenly: strapping on cricket pads in front of the pavilion; strawberries and cream in the tuckshop; the sunlight slanting into the chapel during Sunday services; hot cocoa steaming over the study gas-ring in wintertime; the smell of mud and human bodies in a Rugby scrum. . . .  Netherton.  And then Cambridge.  And then the cadet school.  And then France.  And then . . . the full stop. . . .  He controlled himself, leading his thoughts back from the barrier, gently insinuating them into the immediate future.  He found he could best do this by adopting a note of sardonic self-urging: come along—trousers, waistcoat, tie, shoes, coat—button up for the great family reunion.  “All aboard for the Skylark”—which set him recollecting holidays with his mother as a small boy—never with his father; his father had always been too busy.  They used to rent a house at Brighton, in Regency Square, taking servants with them—Miss Ponsonby and a maid named Florrie, and every morning they would walk along the front not quite as far as Portslade, turning back so inevitably that Portslade became for him a sort of mysterious place beyond human access—until, one afternoon while his mother was having a nap, he escaped from the house and reached Portslade a dauntless but somewhat disappointed explorer.

“I hope the clothes will do for the time being, Mr.