old boy. Season's beginning. I hate London. I'm going week-ending
next Saturday."

"And you won't come back?"

"I shall probably stop ten days."

"I've got something to say to you," said Savile.

Lord Chetwode smiled encouragingly.

"Fire away!"

"There's something I want particularly to ask you."

There was a pause. Such a remark as this from any one but Savile would
have alarmed Chetwode, suggesting something in the nature of a scene,
but he felt pretty safe with his brother-in-law of sixteen. He wondered
what on earth the boy wanted, and felt only good-humouredly amused.
Savile had chosen his words before he came, and had that rash longing we
all feel when we have made out a verbal programme, to make the suitable
remark before the occasion arises.

"We're both men of the world," began Savile.

"Are we, though?" said Chetwode. "Please spare me this irony! _You_'re a
man of the world all right, I know. _I_ don't pretend to be."

"May as well come to the point," said Savile. "You know Woodville, don't
you?"

"Woodville? Rather. Capital chap. What's wrong with him?"

"There's nothing wrong with him," said Savile, "but I want to get him
something to do."

"Really? Doesn't he like being with you and Sir James and Sylvia, and
all that?"

"Yes, he likes it all right. But he isn't much with Sylvia and all that.
He'd like to be more. So would she--a good deal more. That's the point."

Chetwode instantly recollected the incident in the Park. He said without
turning a hair, "Quite so. Most natural, I'm sure----" and then thought
a moment. Savile was silent.

"What Woodville _needs_," said Chetwode, lighting another cigarette,
"is, of course, less of you and Sir James, and a great deal more of
Sylvia; and he can't very well marry her while he's her father's
secretary. Though--by Jove!--I don't see why not!"

"What rot!" said Savile.

"Yes, you're right, Savile. It's true Sir James wouldn't give him a
minute's time for anything. Well, you want me to get him something to do
then?"

"Now, look here, Chetwode, don't play the fool about this. Here's a
chap, considered a brilliant man at Oxford; in every way a thoroughly
good sort, and a gentleman, who, if it weren't for circumstances, would
have been called a good match."

"If it weren't for circumstances, anybody would be called a good match,"
said Chetwode casually.

"What sort of thing do you think you can get him?" asked Savile, "before
Saturday?"