Nothing to do! But there was an infinity of little things to do, which filled his days like an idle but yet active and happy dream. The contrasts of the quiet country life were only more minute than those which made the wider more varied life blend into a somewhat monotonous whole. They were there, to give it interest and charm, but they seemed to relieve it of all monotony. The very sameness _was_ its charm. It was enough to wake up in this quiet spacious beautiful house lapped in the peace of its sylvan remoteness, and to feel that the day was to be spent there, it mattered not how. When the time came to leave it, he left it with regret, and when he came back to it, it was to take up its life at the point at which he had left it. He had thought of it only as a holiday house--only as a very occasional holiday house until the autumn should make it something more,--and that a succession of guests would be almost a necessity on his week-end visits, if they were to get the pleasant flavour out of it. But he had arranged for no big party of them during two months of regular visits, and on the whole had enjoyed it more on the days when he had been alone with the family. He had never liked his family so much as in these days when they were his constant and sometimes sole companions. Hitherto, in London, except for their occasional quiet evenings together, it had always meant going out to do something, and until lately, since Caroline had grown up, it had generally meant inventing something to go out for. In the main, his pursuits had been other than theirs. With Young George, especially, it had been sometimes almost irksome to take the responsibility of finding amusement for him. And yet he loved his little son, and wanted to have him grow up as his companion. Well, Young George wanted no better one; there was no necessity to find amusement for him at Abington. Abington, with all that went with it, _was_ amusement for both of them, every hour of the day. Young George would follow him about everywhere, chattering effusively all the time, completely happy and at ease with him. He had reached the age at which a boy wants his play to be the play of a man, and wants a man to play it with. When Grafton was up in London he immersed himself in more childish pursuits, with Barbara as his companion, or Jimmy Beckley, who was a constant visitor during the Easter holidays. But his best days were those on which his father was there, and on those days he would hardly let him out of his sight. Grafton felt quite sad when he went back to school. Previously he had felt a trifle of relief when the end of the holidays came.