detained with a tenant in the library."

"Jeff, I say, you should have been with us this afternoon. We had such
larks. We got one or two pot shots, but didn't hit anything except the
dog. So it's a good job we didn't borrow Julius. Kennedy says we're in
for a ripping frost, so save yourself up, old man."

"Percy, you talk like a stable-boy. Do remember you are in the drawing-
room; and don't detain Mr Jeffreys from his work."

Under cover of this maternal exhortation Jeffreys withdrew.

"Rum your knowing Jeff, Scarfe!" said Percy, after he had gone; "was he
at Oxford?"

"No," said Scarfe. "It was at school. Surely that must be one of
Hogarth's engravings, Miss Atherton, it is exactly his style."

"It wasn't much of a school, was it?" persisted Percy. "Jeff told me he
didn't care about it."

"I don't think he did," replied Scarfe with a faint smile.

"I suppose you are very fond of Oxford, are you not?" said Mrs Rimbolt;
"every one who belongs to the University seems very proud of it."

This effectually turned the conversation away from Jeffreys, and the
subject was not recurred to that evening, except just when Scarfe was
bidding his mother good-night in her boudoir.

"I hope you won't be dull here," said she. "Miss Atherton seems a
pleasant girl, but it is a pity Percy is not older and more of a
companion."

"Oh, I shall enjoy myself," said Scarfe.

"You don't seem very fond of that Mr Jeffreys."

"No, I draw the line somewhere, mother," said the son.

"What do you mean? Is there anything discreditable about him? He looks
common and stupid, to be sure. Mrs Rimbolt tells me Percy is greatly
taken up with him."

"They appear to have curious ideas about the kind of companion they
choose for their boy," said Scarfe. "But it's no business of ours.
Good-night, mother."

And he went, leaving Mrs Scarfe decidedly mystified.

Jeffreys and Scarfe occasionally met during the next few days. Jeffreys
was rather relieved to find that his late schoolfellow seemed by no
means anxious to recall an old acquaintance or to refer to Bolsover. He
could even forgive him for falling into the usual mode of treating the
librarian as an inferior. It mattered little enough to him, seeing what
Scarfe already knew about him, what he thought of him at Wildtree. On
the whole, the less they met and the less they talked together, the less
chance was there of rousing bitter memories. The Scarfes would hardly
remai