w tutor's scholarship might give
him a loophole for criticism; but he could find nothing to blame. In
fact, he was driven reluctantly to admit that the tutor's knowledge was
far wider and deeper than his own, although Percival was really no mean
classical scholar, and valued himself upon a thorough acquaintance with
modern literature of every kind. He was foiled there, and was therefore
driven back upon the subject of the tutor's antecedents.

"Who is this man Stretton, Elizabeth?" he asked one day. "My father says
you know all about him."

"I?" said Elizabeth, opening her eyes. "I know nothing more than Uncle
Alfred does."

"Indeed. Then you engaged him with remarkably little prudence, as it
appears to me."

"Prudence is not quite the highest virtue in the world."

"Now, my dear Queen Bess, as Jack calls you, don't be didactic. Where
did you pick up this starveling tutor? Was he fainting by the roadside?"

"Mr. Stretton teaches very well, and is much liked by the boys,
Percival. You heard Aunt Isabel tell the story of his first meeting with
Uncle Alfred."

"Ah, yes; the rescue of the umbrella. Well, what else? Of course, he got
somebody to introduce him in proper form after that?"

"No," said Elizabeth.

"No! Then you had friends in common? You knew his family?"

"No."

"Then how, in Heaven's name, Elizabeth, did he make good his footing
here?"

There was a silence. The two were sitting upon the low bench on the
cliff. It was evening, and the sun was sinking to rest over the golden
waters; the air was silent and serene, Percival had been smoking, but he
flung his cigar away, and looked full into Elizabeth's face as he asked
the question.

She spoke at last, tranquilly as ever.

"He was poor, Percival, and we wanted to help him. You and I are not
likely to think the worse of a man for being poor, are we? He had been
ill; he seemed to be in trouble, and we were sorry for him; and I do not
think that my uncle made a mistake in taking him."

"And I," said Percival, with an edge in his voice, "think that he made a
very great mistake."

"Why?"

"Why?" he repeated, with a short, savage laugh. "I shall not tell you
why."

"Do you know anything against Mr. Stretton?"

"Yes."

"What, Percival?" Her tone was indignant; the colour was flaming in her
cheeks.

"I know that Stretton is not his name. My father told me so." There was
a pause, and then Percival went on, in a low voice, but with a gathering