needn't make any effort. What is Charles for?"

"But if you're really not up to it," Charlotte wavered.

"Very well! Very well!" Old Mr. Neave got up and went to join that
little old climbing fellow just as far as his dressing-room...

There young Charles was waiting for him. Carefully, as though everything
depended on it, he was tucking a towel round the hot-water can. Young
Charles had been a favourite of his ever since as a little red-faced
boy he had come into the house to look after the fires. Old Mr. Neave
lowered himself into the cane lounge by the window, stretched out his
legs, and made his little evening joke, "Dress him up, Charles!" And
Charles, breathing intensely and frowning, bent forward to take the pin
out of his tie.

H'm, h'm! Well, well! It was pleasant by the open window, very
pleasant--a fine mild evening. They were cutting the grass on the tennis
court below; he heard the soft churr of the mower. Soon the girls would
begin their tennis parties again. And at the thought he seemed to
hear Marion's voice ring out, "Good for you, partner... Oh, played,
partner... Oh, very nice indeed." Then Charlotte calling from the
veranda, "Where is Harold?" And Ethel, "He's certainly not here,
mother." And Charlotte's vague, "He said--"

Old Mr. Neave sighed, got up, and putting one hand under his beard, he
took the comb from young Charles, and carefully combed the white beard
over. Charles gave him a folded handkerchief, his watch and seals, and
spectacle case.

"That will do, my lad." The door shut, he sank back, he was alone...

And now that little ancient fellow was climbing down endless flights
that led to a glittering, gay dining-room. What legs he had! They were
like a spider's--thin, withered.

"You're an ideal family, sir, an ideal family."

But if that were true, why didn't Charlotte or the girls stop him? Why
was he all alone, climbing up and down? Where was Harold? Ah, it was
no good expecting anything from Harold. Down, down went the little old
spider, and then, to his horror, old Mr. Neave saw him slip past the
dining-room and make for the porch, the dark drive, the carriage gates,
the office. Stop him, stop him, somebody!

Old Mr. Neave started up. It was dark in his dressing-room; the window
shone pale. How long had he been asleep? He listened, and through
the big, airy, darkened house there floated far-away voices, far-away
sounds. Perhaps, he thought vaguely, he had been asleep for a l