re him. You could not
love them; and yet--he was really very decent. A feeling as of pity,
almost of affection, rose in him for his remote tutor. It was queer to
feel so, since the last time they had talked together out there, on the
terrace, he had not felt at all like that.

The noise of the bureau top sliding down aroused him; Mr. Heatherley was
closing in the remains of the artificial flies. That meant he would be
going out to fish. And the moment he heard the door shut, Mark sprang
up, slid back the bureau top, and began to write his letter. It was hard
work.

"DEAR MRS. STORMER,

"My guardian wishes me to beg you and Mr. Stormer to pay us a visit as
soon as you come back from the Tyrol. Please tell Mr. Stormer that only
the very best fishermen--like him--can catch our trout; the rest catch
our trees. This is me catching our trees (here followed a sketch). My
sister is going to be married to-morrow, and it will be disgusting
afterwards unless you come. So do come, please. And with my very best
greetings,

"I am,

"Your humble servant,
"M. LENNAN."

When he had stamped this production and dropped it in the letter-box, he
had the oddest feeling, as if he had been let out of school; a desire to
rush about, to frolic. What should he do? Cis, of course, would be
busy--they were all busy about the wedding. He would go and saddle
Bolero, and jump him in the park; or should he go down along the river
and watch the jays? Both seemed lonely occupations. And he stood in the
window--dejected. At the age of five, walking with his nurse, he had been
overheard remarking: "Nurse, I want to eat a biscuit--ALL THE WAY I want
to eat a biscuit!" and it was still rather so with him perhaps--all the
way he wanted to eat a biscuit. He bethought him then of his modelling,
and went out to the little empty greenhouse where he kept his
masterpieces. They seemed to him now quite horrible--and two of them,
the sheep and the turkey, he marked out for summary destruction. The
idea occurred to him that he might try and model that hawk escaping with
the little rabbit; but when he tried, no nice feeling came, and flinging
the things down he went out. He ran along the unweeded path to the
tennis ground--lawn tennis was then just coming in. The grass looked
very rough. But then, everything about that little manor house was left
rather wild and anyhow; why, nobody quite knew, and nobody seemed to
mind. He stood there scrut