“Musical comedy?” The boy flushed scarlet. “Do you wish to know where I am going, sir?” he asked with angry irony. Edith interposed quickly. “If you are going, Leslie,” she said, “would you mind telephoning for me, to Esdaile, not to come? It’s no use his coming if we aren’t going to play bridge.” Leslie never willingly looked at Edith; he did not do so now. He merely raised his eyebrows, because he was annoyed at being asked to do anything for anybody else, and replied: “Most certainly, if you wish it.” His father returned to the newspaper; the boy stalked in a turmoil of offence and pricked conscience out of the room. If you want to be very angry, people who attempt to meet you with patience and kindness are mere fuel for the flame. Leslie had broken up a bridge four; he was going to do something wrong; and nobody told him not to, or attempted to interfere with him in any way. It was all extremely tiresome. The two left together exchanged a long look of sympathy and understanding. “He’s very young,” said Edith softly. “That’s all, Horace--only very young.” “He’s confoundedly cool,” said his father gloomily, “spoiling a bridge four like that, and got up specially because he said he wanted it! It’s so deuced difficult to know what the fellow does want nowadays.” “What made him blush like that, Horace, when you said ‘musical comedy’?” said his wife, sitting opposite him, and holding up a fire-screen between her face and the fire. “Oh, it’s some nonsense Etta’s been writing me; she thinks he comes up here to meet a woman. No doubt he’s got some queer boy adoration in his head, but it can’t be anything serious at his age.” “Is it a--what kind of a woman?” asked his wife. “Oh, some wonderful American beauty, old enough to be his mother--the star of some touring company. It seems she has turned the heads of all the London youths together. I told Etta she’d far better leave the matter alone. It isn’t as if the boy’s prospects were dazzling; he’ll have plenty, of course, in time, but he’s got nothing now but his mother’s money, and this person isn’t likely to marry him for five hundred a year. In three years’ time, well--he’ll have forgotten her name.” “But--but her influence mightn’t be good?” Edith persisted. “I don’t know,” said Horace reflectively. “Some of her type are quite unscrupulous, no doubt, but not all of them. Anyhow, I did do something; I sent her a note, just giving the facts of the boy’s expectations quite plainly, and asking her what she meant to do about it. I might have called to see her--Etta wanted me to--but I didn’t see the good. Musical comedy ladies are not in my line.” “And you didn’t tell me, Horace?” Edith lifted the fire-screen a little; he could not see her face; in her voice there was a touch of reproach, not more--the friendly reproach of a comrade who has been left out of a consultation. “No. I don’t know why I told you now, but it seemed natural somehow when you asked.”