“4. _Charlie_ is one of the younger brothers. He goes to some kind of night school or gymnasium. Probably an ugly little beggar. Why doesn't he get his food for himself? “5. _The Mother_. Don't know anything about her except that she went to Birmingham with Kathleen. “6. _The Father_. Has lumbago.” “One thing you don't mention,” said Graham. “It's an easy run from here to Wolverhampton on a motor bike!” “Rather a sell if Joe should turn out a boxing blue, and mash us all into pulp for bagging his letter!” said Whitney. There was a general laugh at this. Whitney was over six feet, rowed number 5 in the Balliol boat, and was nicknamed the Iron Duke for his muscular strength. “Go on with your chapter, Priapus,” said the Goblin. II When Forbes had finished there was general laughter and applause. The whimsical idea of building a tale around the persons of the letter was one which his playful mind was competent to develop, and he had written a deft and amusing introduction. Taking “Joe” as his subject he had sketched that gentleman's character with a touch of irony. He had made him a Rhodes Scholar from Indiana (evoking good-natured protest from Minters) and had carried him on a vacation to Guilford House, a small hotel in London much frequented by Rhodes Scholars. There he had made him meet Kathleen who, with her mother, was staying in London for a few days. Forbes had a taste for brunettes, and in his description of the imagined Kathleen he had indulged himself heartily. He found her to be seventeen, slender, with that strong slimness that only an English girl achieves; with a straight brown gaze and abundant dark chestnut hair. She was captain of her school hockey team, it seemed; she was good at tennis and swimming and geometry; she had small patience with poetry and sentiment. But within the athletic and straightforward flapper Forbes thought he saw the fluttering of deeper womanhood; the maiden soul erecting a barrier of abrupt common sense about itself to conceal the shy and sensitive feelings that were beginning to blossom. Such at any rate was Kenneth Forbes's psycho-analysis, and he developed his chapter toward a climax where Kathleen and Joe were left walking in Regent's Park, and the next author would find some difficulty in knowing how to proceed with the second instalment. “Well done indeed!” cried Blair, as Forbes laid down his manuscript and reached for his pipe. There was a general murmur of assent as the men got up to stretch and talk. Someone punched the coals into flame, and the bowl of fruit was passed round. “Who's to write the next chapter?” asked Graham. “Let Falstaff do it!” cried Blair. “He's the sentimentalist! But go easy on poor Joe. You know all Rhodes Scholars don't come from Indiana! Have a heart!” “Do whatever you like to Joe!” cried Forbes; “But be careful with Kathleen! She's adorable! I'm going to write a ballade to her and mail it to her anonymously.”