placidly.

"Not," pursued Freddie, "that I mean to say anything in the least
derogatory and so forth to your jolly old mater, if you understand me,
but the fact remains she scares me pallid. Always has, ever since the
first time I went to stay at your place when I was a kid. I can still
remember catching her eye the morning I happened by pure chance to
bung an apple through her bedroom window, meaning to let a cat on the
sill below have it in the short ribs. She was at least thirty feet
away, but, by Jove, it stopped me like a bullet!"

"Push the bell, old man, will you? I want some more toast."

Freddie did as he was requested, with growing admiration.

"The condemned man made an excellent breakfast," he murmured. "More
toast, Barker," he added, as that admirable servitor opened the door.
"Gallant! That's what I call it. Gallant!"

Derek tilted his chair back.

"Mother is sure to like Jill when she sees her," he said.

"_When_ she sees her! Ah! But the trouble is, young feller-me-lad,
that she _hasn't_ seen her! That's the weak spot in your case, old
companion. A month ago she didn't know of Jill's existence. Now, you
know and I know that Jill is one of the best and brightest. As far as
we are concerned, everything in the good old garden is lovely. Why,
dash it, Jill and I were children together. Sported side by side on
the green, and what not. I remember Jill, when she was twelve, turning
the garden hose on me and knocking about seventy-five per cent off the
market value of my best Sunday suit. That sort of thing forms a bond,
you know, and I've always felt that she was a corker. But your
mater's got to discover it for herself. It's a dashed pity, by Jove,
that Jill hasn't a father or a mother or something of that species to
rally round just now. They would form a gang. There's nothing like a
gang! But she's only got that old uncle of hers. A rummy bird. Met
him?"

"Several times. I like him."

"Oh, he's a genial old buck all right. A very bonhomous lad. But you
hear some pretty queer stories about him if you get among people who
knew him in the old days. Even now I'm not so dashed sure I should
care to play cards with him. Young Threepwood was telling me only the
other day that the old boy took thirty quid off him at picquet as
clean as a whistle. And Jimmy Monroe, who's on the Stock Exchange,
says he's frightfully busy these times buying margins or whatever it
is chappies do down in the City. Margins. Tha