“A child--youth has no memory, not even for its stomach aches,” said Mr. Collings oracularly. “Did you discuss those too?” sneered his partner. Mr. Collings raised his eyebrows. Such a man as he is hopeless in the face of sheer vulgarity. “An orphan....” he began. The clerk at the door spoke in the strained way of managing clerks. “Miss Diana Ford, sir,” he said. The legal house of Collings & Cathcart exchanged glances. “Show the young lady in.” The door closed. “Be gentle with her, William.” Mr. Cathcart writhed. “Will she be gentle with me?” he asked bitterly. “Will you guarantee that she will be reasonably polite to me--and back your guarantee with real money?” There came through the door a peach tree, blossoming in the spring of the year; summer dawn on riverside meadows with the dew winking from a thousand gossamers. The froth of hawthorn in an English country lane; a crystal brook whispering between slim larches. Miss Diana Ford. During the war Mr. Cathcart had held a commission in the Army Service Corps (Home Service) and had acquired the inventory habit. He saw: Girl: Slim, medium size. One. Eyes: Grey-blue; large, more or less innocent. Two. Mouth: Red, Bow-shaped, largish. One. Nose: Straight, in perfect shape. One. Hair: Slightly golden, bobbed. One complete head. Diana was as unrecognisable from the inventory as the average man from the description on his passport. She had the atmosphere of spring and dawn. Her colouring belonged to such season and time, having a pink of its own and a whiteness which looked pink when compared with white. She moved with such supple grace that Mr. Cathcart suspected an entire absence of corsets--he was a married man. She came impulsively to Mr. Collings and kissed him. Mr. William Cathcart closed his eyes, so did not meet the smirk of satisfaction which his partner loosened for his benefit. “Good morning, Uncle. Good morning, Uncle Cathcart.” “‘Mornin’,” said Mr. Cathcart, hostile to the last. “‘Mornin’!” she boomed in imitation. “And I’ve come feeling awfully nice toward you! I called you ‘Uncle’!” “I heard you,” glowered the newly elected relative. “It would be much better, Miss Ford, if we proceeded on business lines----” “You can proceed on tram lines if that pleases you,” she sighed, taking off her hat and tossing it on to the nearest deed-box. “Oh, Uncle Collings, I’m _sick_!” Mr. Cathcart half rose in his alarm. “Sick of Australia, sick of the station, sick of the people, sick of everything. I’m going home.” “Home!” gasped Mr. Collings. “But, my dear little Diana. If by ‘home’ you mean England and not--er----” “Heaven,” suggested Mr. Cathcart. “I mean England, of course I mean England. I am going to stay with my cousin, Gordon Selsbury.” Mr. Collings scratched his nose. “An elderly person, of course?” “I don’t know.” She shrugged her indifference. “Married, er----?”