se had stared at his son, his eyes brightening to an
electric glare as they picked out the patches of the shabby sailor-suit
and the frantic, mollifying smile on Robert's face had grown stiff as
he had turned himself obediently about.

"Disgraceful. I wonder you women are not ashamed, the way you neglect
the child--I shall take him to Shoolbred's first thing to-morrow and
have him fitted out from top to toe----" The gathering storm receded
miraculously. "However, he can't appear like that. For God's sake,
get the house tidy, at any rate----"

So Robert had been bustled up stairs and the bailiff lured into the
kitchen, where fortunately he had become so drunk that he had had no
opportunity to explain to the French chef and the two waiters the real
reason for his presence and his whole-hearted participation in the
feast.

From the top of the stairs Robert had watched Christine go into dinner
on his father's arm, and Edith Stonehouse follow with a black-coated
stranger who had known his mother. He had listened to the talk and his
father's laughter--jovial and threatening--and once he had dived
downstairs and, peering through the banisters like a small blond
monkey, had snatched a cream meringue from a passing tray. Then for a
moment he had almost believed that they were all going to be happy
together.

That had been last night. Now there was nothing left but the bailiff,
still slightly befuddled, an incredible pile of unwashed dishes and an
atmosphere of stale tobacco. James Stonehouse had gone off early in a
black and awful temper. It seemed that at the last moment the
multi-millionaire had explained that owing to a hitch in his affairs he
was short of ready cash and would be glad of a small loan. Only
temporary, of course. Wouldn't have dreamed of asking, but meeting
such an old friend in such affluent circumstances----

So the eighth birthday had been forgotten. Robert himself could not
have explained why grief should have driven him to his father's
cigars-box. Perhaps it was just a _beau geste_ of defiance, or a
reminder that one day he too would be grown up and free. At any rate,
it was still a very large cigar. Though he puffed at it painstakingly,
blowing the smoke far out of the window so as to escape detection, the
result was not encouraging. The exquisite mauve-grey ash was indeed
less than a quarter of an inch long when his sense of wrong and
injustice deepened to an overwhelming despair.