Receiving a shake of the head, Bob Pillin stood by the fire and watched.
The old "sport" liked to paddle his own canoe. Fancy having to lower
yourself into a chair like that! When an old Johnny got to such a state
it was really a mercy when he snuffed out, and made way for younger men.
How his Companies could go on putting up with such a fossil for chairman
was a marvel! The fossil rumbled and said in that almost inaudible
voice:

"I suppose you're beginning to look forward to your father's shoes?"

Bob Pillin's mouth opened. The voice went on:

"Dibs and no responsibility. Tell him from me to drink port--add five
years to his life."

To this unwarranted attack Bob Pillin made no answer save a laugh; he
perceived that a manservant had entered the room.

"A Mrs. Larne, sir. Will you see her?"

At this announcement the old man seemed to try and start; then he nodded,
and held out the note he had written. Bob Pillin received it together
with the impression of a murmur which sounded like: "Scratch a poll,
Poll!" and passing the fine figure of a woman in a fur coat, who seemed
to warm the air as she went by, he was in the hall again before he
perceived that he had left his hat.

A young and pretty girl was standing on the bearskin before the fire,
looking at him with round-eyed innocence. He thought: 'This is better; I
mustn't disturb them for my hat'; and approaching the fire, said:

"Jolly cold, isn't it?"

The girl smiled: "Yes-jolly."

He noticed that she had a large bunch of violets at her breast, a lot of
fair hair, a short straight nose, and round blue-grey eyes very frank and
open. "Er" he said, "I've left my hat in there."

"What larks!" And at her little clear laugh something moved within Bob
Pillin.

"You know this house well?"

She shook her head. "But it's rather scrummy, isn't it?"

Bob Pillin, who had never yet thought so answered:

"Quite O.K."

The girl threw up her head to laugh again. "O.K.? What's that?"

Bob Pillin saw her white round throat, and thought: 'She is a ripper!'
And he said with a certain desperation:

"My name's Pillin. Yours is Larne, isn't it? Are you a relation here?"

"He's our Guardy. Isn't he a chook?"

That rumbling whisper like "Scratch a Poll, Poll!" recurring to Bob
Pillin, he said with reservation:

"You know him better than I do." "Oh! Aren't you his grandson, or
something?"

Bob Pillin did not cross himself.

"Lord! No! My d