The boat was ready for them, moored to a steep flight of steps which Bink had hewn out of the bank after his working hours. He had found odd planks in the wood-house, and had contrived to face the steps with timber in a most respectable manner, rewarded by Daphne by sweet words and sweeter looks, and by such a shower of shillings that he had opened a post-office savings-bank book on the strength of her bounty, and felt himself on the road to fortune. There was the boat in all the smartness of new varnished wood. Daphne had given up her idea of a Pompeian red dado to oblige the boat-builder. There were the oars and sculls, with Daphne’s monogram in dark blue and gold; and there, glittering in the sunlight, was the name she had chosen for her craft, in bright golden letters—Nero. ‘What a queer name to choose!’ said Edgar. ‘He was such an out-and-out beast, you know.’ ‘Not a bit of it,’ retorted Daphne. ‘I read an article yesterday in an old volume of Cornhill, in which the writer demonstrates that he was rather a nice man. He didn’t poison Britannicus; he didn’t make away with his mamma; he didn’t set fire to Rome, though he did play the violin beautifully. He was a very accomplished young man, and the historians of his time were silly _gobe-mouches_, who jotted down every ridiculous scandal that was floating in society. I think that Taci——what’s his name ought to be ashamed of himself.’ ‘Oh, Nero has been set on his legs, has he?’ said Edgar carelessly, as he took the rudder lines, while Daphne bent over her sculls, and began—rather too vehemently—to feather. ‘And I suppose Tiberius was a very meritorious monarch, and all those scandals about Capri were so many airy fictions? Well, it doesn’t make much difference to us, does it?—except that it will go hard with me by-and-by, when my boys come to learn the history of the future, to have the young scamps tell me that all I learnt at Rugby was bosh.’ ‘At Rugby!’ cried Daphne, suddenly earnest. ‘You were at Rugby with my brother, weren’t you? Were you great friends?’ Edgar leant over the boat, concerned about some weeds that were possibly interfering with the rudder. ‘We didn’t see much of each other. He was ever so much younger than I, you know.’ ‘Was he nice? Were people fond of him?’ ‘Everybody was dreadfully sorry when he died of scarlet-fever, poor fellow!’ answered Edgar, without looking at her. ‘Yes, it was terrible, was it not? I can just remember him. Such a bright, handsome boy; full of life and spirits. He used to tease me a good deal, but that is the nature of boys. And then, when I was at Brighton, there came a letter to say that he was dead, and I had to wear black frocks for ever so long. Poor Loftus! How dearly I should have loved him if he had lived!’ ‘Yes; it would have been nice for you to have a brother, would it not?’ said Edgar, still with a shade of embarrassment.