“I? He never made a greater mistake! The City would soon look down on me. I’m no good at figures; I’ve no business ability or smart alacrity. If I had not taken myself off, I’d soon have been chucked out; besides, I never could stick in an office all day from ten to six. I’d much rather wash plates! I want something that will keep me in the open air all the time, rain or shine; and if I had to do with horses, so much the better. How about a place as groom--a breaker-in of young hunters?” “Not to be thought of!” she answered curtly. “No?” then drawing out another cigarette, “do you know, I’ve half a mind to enlist. You see, I know something of soldiering--and I like it. I’d soon get my stripes, and for choice I’d pick the ‘Death and Glory Boys.’” “Yes; you may like soldiering as an officer, with a fair allowance, a couple of hunters, and polo ponies; but I’m not sure that Trooper Wynyard would care for stables, besides his drill and work, and I may be wrong, but I think you have a couple of troop horses to do up.” “Oh, I could manage all right! I’m rather handy with horses, though I must confess the bronchos I’ve been riding lately did not get much grooming.” “No, no, Owen, I’m dead against enlisting, remember that,” she said authoritatively. “I shall go and interview Uncle Richard to-morrow morning, and have a tooth-and-nail combat on your behalf, find out if he means to stick to his intention, or if _I_ can’t persuade him to give you a job on the estate, say as assistant agent, that would suit you?” “You’re awfully clever, Sis,” said the young man, now rising and leaning against the chimneypiece, “and in every respect the head of the family. It’s downright wonderful how successfully you manage other people’s affairs, and give one a push here and a hand there. I am aware that you have immense and far-reaching--er--influence. You have been the making of Kesters.” His sister dismissed the statement with an impatient jerk of her cigarette. “Oh yes, you have,” he went on doggedly. “He was formerly a common or garden wealthy man, whose daytime was divided between meals and business; now he’s a K.C.B., sits on all sorts of boards, has a fine place in the country, shoots a bit, is a Deputy-Lieutenant, and I don’t know what all--and _you’ve_ done it! But there is one person you cannot manage or move, and that is Uncle Richard; he is like a stone figure that all the wind and sun and rain may beat on, and he never turns a hair.” “How you do mix your metaphors!” she exclaimed; “who ever saw a stone image with hair upon it! Well,” rising to stand beside him, “I shall see what _I_ can do in the morning. Now, let us put the whole thing out of our heads and have a jolly evening. Shall we go to a theatre? I suppose you’ve not been inside one since you were last in town?” “Oh yes, I was at theatres in Buenos Ayres, the Theatre Doria, a sort of music hall, where I saw some ripping dancing.”