Jack Ward and Nina, in my opinion, behaved none too well; but my father liked Jack and my mother did not say much about him, which explains the whole thing. He was always ready to do anything, and his only fault in my father's eyes was that he was never in time for breakfast. I was chiefly engaged during his visit in paving the way for Owen's. I told my mother everything and wanted to tackle my father at once, but she said I must wait for a favourable opportunity. I waited a whole week, and it had a most depressing effect on me, so I just walked into his study at last and got it over. It happened to be a damp day, during which he had felt two twinges of lumbago, but he forgot those twinges before he had done with me. I bore everything he said silently, because when he is in a furious rage in the beginning he tails off wonderfully at the end. It seemed that he had a very low opinion of the Professor, and he declared emphatically that he was not going to have his house made into a sanatorium. I listened to a crowd of disagreeable facts about my new friend, and my father declared that even the sight of his son would give him an attack of gout. "It is true," he said, "that I did save his life, and he had, as far as that went, cause to be grateful, and he wasn't grateful but a disgrace to the regiment. I want to forget all about the man and then you rake him up again, and you say that stupid uncle of yours, who plays cricket when he ought to be writing sermons, is going to be a friend to him. It's more than I can or will put up with," and he banged _The Nineteenth Century_ down on his writing-table so violently that he upset a vase of roses and some of the water went into his ink-pot. After that he was incoherent for a minute, and I, not knowing what to say, remarked that the Bishop could not be expected to write sermons during his holidays. "A bishop ought always to be writing sermons," was his only answer, and I guessed that his rage had reached its climax. I tried to lower the flood on his table by means of my pocket-handkerchief, and waited. "What sort of a fellow is this son who pushes himself upon you in this way? It's monstrous." "He's quiet and all right, and he has never pushed himself at all. I made him promise to come; he didn't want to, only it's his chance to get well and he must take it. You would have done the same thing." "What's he like?" "He's not exactly like any one else I know at Oxford, but----" "Of course he isn't." "I was going to say no one could possibly dislike him." "I suppose he will have to come, but I want you to understand that in future I insist on knowing whom you want to ask here before you ask them. I am exceedingly annoyed, I shall go and see your mother."