And Hendricks had been a good selection, with his virility and gentle, understanding firmness. He understood the problem. ‘You’ll do what no one else could,’ the anxious father told him, ‘for he worships you, and you can sting without hurting him. You’ll put life and interest into him if anybody in this world can. I have great hopes of this tour. I shall always be in your debt, Mr. Hendricks.’ And Hendricks had accepted the onerous duty in his big, high-minded way. He was conscientious to the backbone. This little side-trip was his sole deflection, if such it can be called even. ‘Life, light and cheerful influences,’ had been his instructions, ‘nothing dull or melancholy; an occasional fling, if he wants it--I’d welcome a fling as a good sign--and as much intercourse with decent people, and stimulating sight-seeing as you can manage--or can stand,’ the Marquess added with a smile. ‘Only you won’t overtax the lad, will you? Above all, let him think _he_ chooses and decides, when possible.’ Villaret, however, hardly complied with these conditions; there was melancholy in it; Hendricks’ mind--whose reflexes the spongy nature of the empty lad absorbed too easily--would be in a minor key. Yet a night could work no harm. Whence came, he wondered, the fleeting notion that it might do good? Was it, perhaps, that Leysin, the vigorous old Pasteur, might contribute something? Leysin had been a considerable force in his own development, he remembered; they had corresponded a little since; Leysin was out of the common, certainly, restless energy in him as of the sea. Hendricks found difficulty in sorting out his thoughts and motives, but Leysin was in them somewhere--this idea that his energetic personality might help. His vitalising effect, at least, would counteract the melancholy.