it. I think the talk about 'engagements' is cant."

"I think perhaps it is," said Rickie. But he went. Never had the turkey
been so athletic, or the plum-pudding tied into its cloth so tightly.
Yet he knew that both these symbols of hilarity had cost money, and
it went to his heart when Mr. Silt said in a hungry voice, "Have you
thought at all of what you want to be? No? Well, why should you? You
have no need to be anything." And at dessert: "I wonder who Cadover goes
to? I expect money will follow money. It always does." It was with a
guilty feeling of relief that he left for the Pembrokes'.

The Pembrokes lived in an adjacent suburb, or rather "sububurb,"--the
tract called Sawston, celebrated for its public school. Their style of
life, however, was not particularly suburban. Their house was small and
its name was Shelthorpe, but it had an air about it which suggested a
certain amount of money and a certain amount of taste. There were decent
water-colours in the drawing-room. Madonnas of acknowledged merit hung
upon the stairs. A replica of the Hermes of Praxiteles--of course only
the bust--stood in the hall with a real palm behind it. Agnes, in her
slap-dash way, was a good housekeeper, and kept the pretty things well
dusted. It was she who insisted on the strip of brown holland that led
diagonally from the front door to the door of Herbert's study: boys'
grubby feet should not go treading on her Indian square. It was she who
always cleaned the picture-frames and washed the bust and the leaves of
the palm. In short, if a house could speak--and sometimes it does speak
more clearly than the people who live in it--the house of the Pembrokes
would have said, "I am not quite like other houses, yet I am perfectly
comfortable. I contain works of art and a microscope and books. But I do
not live for any of these things or suffer them to disarrange me. I live
for myself and for the greater houses that shall come after me. Yet in
me neither the cry of money nor the cry for money shall ever be heard."

Mr. Pembroke was at the station. He did better as a host than as a
guest, and welcomed the young man with real friendliness.

"We were all coming, but Gerald has strained his ankle slightly,
and wants to keep quiet, as he is playing next week in a match. And,
needless to say, that explains the absence of my sister."

"Gerald Dawes?"

"Yes; he's with us. I'm so glad you'll meet again."

"So am I," said Rickie with extreme aw