Mr. Grice, who had been assisting his second choice to load glasses and spoons on to a tray, once more desisted from his labours in order not to confuse his brain, and began, fixing his wavering eye upon a point on the wall just above Philip's head:-- "I met 'er at a birthday party at my late first's married sister's, sir. I gave her a motter out of a cracker, which seemed to me to sum up what I wanted to say in very convenient fashion, sir. It said:-- _"'If you love me as I love you, Then let's begin to bill and coo,'_ sir. Very 'andy and compact, I thought it." "And what did you say to that, Mrs. Grice?" asked Philip. "I told him to give over being a silly old man, sir," replied Mrs. Grice, with extreme gratification. "And did he?" "No, sir," replied the simpering Mrs. Grice. "'E _would_ 'ave me! He got his way." She smiled roguishly at her all-conquering spouse, who gave her a look of stern reproof. "Will there be anything further, sir?" "No thank you," said Philip. "Good-night!" His aged retainers having withdrawn, Philip sat on, staring into the fire. "We all have our own ways of setting about things," he said aloud. Philip had a bad habit of talking to himself, especially at moments of mental concentration. When scolded by Peggy, he had pleaded that it helped him to think. "Tim's is a personal interview in the conservatory. Grice's is a motto out of a cracker. Mrs. Grice's is a big brother. Mine--" He rose, and crossed the room to a locked bureau. From this he extracted an old leather writing-case, which had once belonged to his father. This he laid open upon the table, beside a green-shaded reading-lamp. After that he turned out all the other lights and made up the fire to a cheerful blaze. Finally, from the pocket of the writing-case he extracted a fat envelope. It was addressed, but not fastened. Philip drew up his chair to the table and pulled out the contents. These comprised many sheets, the last of which was not finished. He read the letter right through, slowly and seriously. Occasionally he made an erasure or a correction, but not often. Then, when he reached the unfinished page, he charged his pen, squared his elbows, uttered a heavy sigh, and addressed himself to the labours of composition. More than once he tore a page up and began again, but finally all was finished. He leaned back and read the whole epistle right through again. Then he folded its many sheets in their right order and put them into the envelope. "I think the occasion calls for sealing-wax," he said. He found an old stump in the writing-case, and sealed up the envelope, impressing it with his father's seal. Presently the deed was done. The Epistle of Theophilus lay on the table before its author, signed, sealed, addressed, and stamped. Philip looked at the clock, and whistled. It was a quarter past twelve.