Mr. Pembroke clenched his teeth. He had been bearing with this sort of
thing for nearly an hour. "If that is the case, we can select another.
A title is easy to come by. But that is the idea it must suggest. The
stories, as I have twice explained to you, all centre round a Nature
theme. Pan, being the god of--"

"I know that," said Stephen impatiently.

"--Being the god of--"

"All right. Let's get furrard. I've learnt that."

It was years since the schoolmaster had been interrupted, and he could
not stand it. "Very well," he said. "I bow to your superior knowledge of
the classics. Let us proceed."

"Oh yes the introduction. There must be one. It was the introduction
with all those wrong details that sold the other book."

"You overwhelm me. I never penned the memoir with that intention."

"If you won't do one, Mrs. Keynes must!"

"My sister leads a busy life. I could not ask her. I will do it myself
since you insist."

"And the binding?"

"The binding," said Mr. Pembroke coldly, "must really be left to the
discretion of the publisher. We cannot be concerned with such details.
Our task is purely literary." His attention wandered. He began to
fidget, and finally bent down and looked under the table. "What have we
here?" he asked.

Stephen looked also, and for a moment they smiled at each other over
the prostrate figure of a child, who was cuddling Mr. Pembroke's boots.
"She's after the blacking," he explained. "If we left her there, she'd
lick them brown."

"Indeed. Is that so very safe?"

"It never did me any harm. Come up! Your tongue's dirty."

"Can I--" She was understood to ask whether she could clean her tongue
on a lollie.

"No, no!" said Mr. Pembroke. "Lollipops don't clean little girls'
tongues."

"Yes, they do," he retorted. "But she won't get one." He lifted her on
his knee, and rasped her tongue with his handkerchief.

"Dear little thing," said the visitor perfunctorily. The child began
to squall, and kicked her father in the stomach. Stephen regarded her
quietly. "You tried to hurt me," he said. "Hurting doesn't count. Trying
to hurt counts. Go and clean your tongue yourself. Get off my knee."
Tears of another sort came into her eyes, but she obeyed him. "How's the
great Bertie?" he asked.

"Thank you. My nephew is perfectly well. How came you to hear of his
existence?"

"Through the Silts, of course. It isn't five miles to Cadover."

Mr. Pembroke raised his eyes mournfully. "I ca