Thus, at the age of eight, does Master Brian Vereker Carr commune with himself--a habit acquired during an infancy spent in a large nursery where there was no one else to talk to. The necessity for this form of duologue no longer exists, for now a sister shares the nursery with him--Brian lives in dread of the day when she shall discover that her manly brother not only owned but once rejoiced in the great doll's house in the corner by the fireplace--but the habit remains. Besides, Miss Carr is only four years old, and gentlemen who have worn knickerbockers for years find it difficult to unbend towards their extreme juniors to any great extent. Hence Mr Brian still confers aloofly with himself, even in the presence of adults. There are touches of Uncle Anthony Cuthbert about Brian. At present he is inadequately filling a large arm-chair in front of the library fire at Belton. The fire is the sole illuminant of the room. The curtains are closely drawn, for it is a cold winter evening. Brian Vereker continues his observations, now approaching an artistic climax. "If you go upstairs promptly _and_ obediently, like a good boy, what do you think mother will give you?" inquires voice number one. "Chocolates!" replies number two, with an inflection of tone which implies that it will be playing the game pretty low down if mother does not. The owner of both voices then turns an appealing pair of brown eyes upon Daphne, who is sitting on the other side of the fireplace, engaged in the task of amusing her four-year-old daughter. "We'll see," she replies after the immemorial practice of mothers.... "And suddenly," she continues to the impatient auditor on her lap, "his furry skin fell away, and his great teeth disappeared, and he stood up there straight and beautiful, in shining armour. He _was_ a fairy prince, after all! Brian, dear, tumble out of that arm-chair. Here is dad." Daphne must have quick ears, for a full half-minute elapses before the door opens and a figure appears in the dim light at the end of the room. Apparently the darkness does not trouble him, for he circumnavigates a round table and a revolving bookcase without hesitation, and finally drops into the arm-chair recently vacated by his son. "Brian Vereker Carr," inquires a small and respectful voice at his elbow, "do you think dad will play with you to-night?" "I am _sure_ he will," comes a confident reply from the same quarter, "if you give him two minutes to light his pipe in, and refrain from unseemly demon--demonstrations of affection in the meanwhile." "It's a hard world for parents," grumbles Juggernaut, getting up. "Where is my tobacco-pouch?" His hand falls upon the corner of the mantelpiece, but encounters nothing there but a framed photograph of a sun-burned young man on a polo-pony--Uncle Ally, to be precise. "Now where on _earth_ is that pouch? I know I left it on the left-hand end of the mantelpiece after lunch."