"Pretty good old apple-trees, eh? Ribston pippins nearly all of them. The blossom was rather spoilt by that wet May, but there's not such a bad crop considering. I like this salmon-coloured phlox. General something or other beginning with an H it's called. Mr. Grey gave me a good deal. The garden of course was full of vegetables, when I had it first. I must send you some clumps of this phlox to Galton. Of course, I got rid of the vegetables." "Yes, of course," agreed Mr. Hazlewood dryly. "Doesn't the house look jolly from here? It's pretty old, you know. About 1590 I believe. It's a wonderful place, isn't it? Hulloa, there's my housekeeper. Miss Peasey, here's my father. She's very deaf, so you'll have to shout." Mr. Hazlewood, who never shouted even at the naughtiest boy in his school, shuddered faintly at his son's invitation and bowed to Miss Peasey with a formality of disapproval that seemed to include her in the condemnation of all he beheld. "Quite a resemblance, I'm sure," Miss Peasey archly declared. "Tea will be ready at four o'clock and Mr. Hazlewood Senior's room is all in order for him." Then she disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. "A little empty, I'm afraid," said Guy, as his father looked round the hall. "Is that water I hear?" "Yes, the river washes the back of the house." "And this place isn't damp?" "Not a bit," Guy declared positively. "Well, it smells of bronchitis and double-pneumonia." Guy showed his father the dining-room. "I've got it rather jolly, I think," he ventured. "Yes, my candlesticks and chairs, that your mother lent you for your rooms at Balliol, look very well," his father agreed. Guy led the way to the spare bedroom. "No wonder you spent all your money," Mr. Hazlewood commented, surveying the four-post bed and the Jacobean furniture. "How on earth did you manage to afford all this luxury?" "Oh, I picked it up somehow," said Guy lightly. He had decided on second thoughts not to reveal the secret of the Rectory's loan. When his father had rid himself of the dust from his journey, Guy introduced him proudly to his own room. "Well, this is certainly quite a pleasant place," Mr. Hazlewood admitted. "If not too draughty with those two windows." "You must scratch a motto on the pane with the diamond-pencil," Guy suggested. "My motto is hard work." "Well, write that. Or at any rate put your initials and the date." His father took up the pencil with that expression of superiority which Guy most hated, and scratched his name rather awkwardly on the glass.