The rain ceased whispering, but the trees took up the story and rustled importantly, shaking their glistening leaves at the sun who winked lazily in the west. The two little sisters called to Roger to come and have tea with the dolls; but he shook his head impatiently, thrusting it between the bars of the window that he might not hear them. A robin on the hawthorn hedge below regarded him in friendly fashion and sang a song of coming summer; but Roger saw nothing but a blurred little splash of crimson against the green, for his eyes were full of tears. "Father, what’s a stainless gentleman?" he asked as they went together in the evening to feed the big carp in the pond. Roger the elder stopped in the middle of the path. He took his cigar out of his mouth and cleared his throat. "Well, sonnie, I suppose it’s a man who runs very straight, who never plays the fool, and does idiotic things, for the doing of which he has to pay Jew prices—a very good man, you know. But why? What d’you want to know for?" "Well, mother said Uncle Ambrose is a ’stainless gentleman,’ and she hoped I’d be like him when I’m grown up." "For the matter of that, sonnie, so do I. You couldn’t have a better model." "I’d rather be like you, fardie, dear—much rather." And Roger took his father’s hand in both his own, and squeezed it hard. The elder Roger said nothing for a minute, but he grew very red. How was he to tell the faithful little soul at his side that his ideal was by no means a high one? "You’ll grow up very much the sort of man you want to be, sonnie. So mind and want to be the best sort going." "Well, ’t all events, I shan’t be like Uncle Ambrose. He’s too fond of sitting still." "You’ll be fond of sitting still when you’re his age," said his father, with a sigh of relief. They fed the carp, and Roger almost forgot his troubles, till, on returning to the house, they saw his mother on the tennis court with the little girls. She called to him to come and play cricket with his sisters. "Will you come too, father?" he asked, pulling at his father’s hand. The elder Roger looked somewhat wistfully at the little group inside the netting on the tennis court. His little daughters kissed their fingers to him, calling to him to come; but his wife had turned her back upon him, and she had a most expressive back. He shook his head at the children, muttering something about letters to write, and turned to walk slowly towards the house. "I’ll bowl to you if you come, Roger; the grass is really quite dry again!" called his mother. Roger stood still in the drive, looking from one to the other of his parents both with their backs to him. Lettice looked over her shoulder and saw her husband’s departing figure. "Come, my son!" she called, with a queer little catch in her sweet voice. "I’ve hardly seen you all day."