"Now where's the hurry?" said our neighbour, deprecatingly, and sitting down he began to cut up some tobacco. I looked across at New York, still surrounded in diaphanous mist, and endeavoured to adjust my mind to the immediate business. Since dinner the night before I had been indulging in somewhat frothy speculation. It was only fair that Mr. Carville should have the floor and speak for himself. Bill came out and nodded brightly. None of us suggested waiting for Miss Fraenkel. I think we were anxious to hear a little more of Mr. Carville before Miss Fraenkel arrived; a sort of presentiment, if you like. "Do tell us about your brother, Mr. Carville," said Bill. "What happened to him?" Mr. Carville struck a match and puffed away in the conscientious manner demanded by a corn-cob. "Why, of course," he said, carefully expelling a jet of smoke from the corner of his closed lips, "he came back, my brother did." Bill looked at him in tragic annoyance. CHAPTER VIII HE CONTINUES HIS TALE "It was like this," he went on. "Apart from a general dislike of doing things that boys consider 'bad form' my brother had no scruples at all. For instance, if a stranger cheeks you, you _feel_ as if you'd like to hit him. My young brother _did_ hit him. What was still more to his advantage he gave people the impression that he was always ready to jump over the table at them. My impression is that the old Head didn't dare flog him and had been glad to find an excuse to get rid of him. It didn't occur to the old chap that my brother wouldn't come home. He little knew my brother!