A week after his arrival Mrs. MacDermott paid a high compliment to her nephew. She promised to mount him on the bay mare and take him out hunting. She had satisfied herself that Johnny Gafferty was not mistaken and that the young man really could ride. Bertram, excited and in high good humour, succeeded, before she had time to protest, in giving her a hearty kiss of gratitude. The morning of the hunt was warm and moist. The meet was in one of the most favourable places in the country. Mrs. MacDermott, drawing on her gloves in the hall before starting, noted with gratification that her nephew’s breeches were well-cut and his stock neatly fastened. Johnny Gafferty could be heard outside the door speaking to the horses which he held ready. A telegraph boy arrived on a bicycle. He handed the usual orange envelope to Mrs. Mac-Dermott. She tore it open impatiently and glanced at the message inside. She gave an exclamation of surprise and read the message through slowly and carefully. Then, without a word, she handed it to her nephew. “Very sorry,” the telegram ran, “only to-day discovered that Bertram had not gone to you as arranged. He is in a condition of complete prostration. Cannot start now. Connell.” “It’s from my brother,” said Mrs. MacDermott, “but what on earth does it mean? You’re here all right, aren’t you?” “Yes,” he said, “_I’m_ here.” He laid a good deal of emphasis on the “I.” Mrs. MacDermott looked at him with sudden suspicion. “I’ve had a top-hole time,” he said. “What an utterly incompetent rotter Connell is! He had nothing on earth to do but lie low. His father couldn’t have found out.” Mrs. MacDermott walked over to the door and addressed Gafferty. “Johnny,” she said, “the horses won’t be wanted to-day.” She turned to the young man who stood beside her. “Now,” she said, “come into the library and explain what all this means.” “Oh, I say, Aunt Nell,” he said, “don’t let’s miss the day. I’ll explain the whole thing to you in the evening after dinner.” “You’ll explain it now, if you can.” She led the way into the library. “It’s quite simple really,” he said. “Bertram Connell, your nephew, though a poet and all that, is rather an ass.” “Are you Bertram Connell, or are you not?” said Mrs. MacDermott. “Oh Lord, no. I’m not that sort of fellow at all. I couldn’t write a line of poetry to save my life. He’s--you simply can’t imagine how frightfully brainy he is. All the same I rather like him. He was my fag at school and we were up together at Cambridge. I’ve more or less kept up with him ever since. He’s more like a girl than a man, you know. I daresay that’s why I liked him. Then he crocked up, nerves and that sort of thing. And they said he must come over here. He didn’t like the notion a bit. I was in London just then on leave, and he told me how he hated the idea.” “So did I,” said Mrs. MacDermott.