Montagu read Chapter II. and Mr. Wycherly Chapter III.; but he got interested and went on to Chapter IV. He had just reached the verse, "_And Cain talked with Abel, his brother: and it came to pass when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel, his brother, and slew him,_" when the book was pulled down gently by a small and grubby hand, "Thank you, Guardie, dear," Edmund said sweetly, "I don’t want to tire you, and you know we never did more than _one_ chapter with Aunt Esperance. One between the three of us!" "I always sympathise with Cain," Montagu remarked thoughtfully. "I’m perfectly certain Abel was an instructive fellow, always telling him if he’d only do things some other way how much better it would be. Younger brothers are like that," he added pointedly, looking at Edmund. "That view of the case never struck me," said Mr. Wycherly. "It always strikes me every time I hear it," Montagu said bitterly. "It’s just what Edmund does. He makes me feel awfully Cainish sometimes, I can tell you; always telling me I ought to hold a bat this way, or I’d jump further if I took off that way, or something." "Well, you’re such an old foozle," cried Edmund with perfect good nature. "So slow." "I do things differently from you, but I do most of ’em every bit as well." "So you ought, you’re so much older." "All the more reason for you to shut up." The conversation threatened to become acrimonious, so Mr. Wycherly intervened by asking mildly: "Is there anything either of you would like me to explain?" "Oh, dear, no," Edmund exclaimed heartily. "Not till we come to Revelations. Then it’s all explanation. It takes Mr. Gloag an hour to explain one wee verse, so I fear we’ll only be able to do about a word at a time." "But you must not expect me," Mr. Wycherly cried in dismay, "to be able to explain things as fully as Mr. Gloag, who is a trained theologian." "We shouldn’t _like_ you to be as long as Mr. Gloag, Guardie dear; we shouldn’t like it at all," Montagu answered reassuringly. Whereupon, much relieved, Mr. Wycherly bade his wards good-night, and departed downstairs again where he sat for some considerable time pondering Montagu’s view of the first fratricide. "It seems to me," he said to himself, "that it is I who will be the one to receive enlightenment." It was three days since they had, as Mr. Wycherly put it, "come into residence," and during that time Mrs. Griffin’s cooking had not improved. Neither had the house become less dusty or more tidy. The time was afternoon, about five o’clock, and they sat at tea; a singularly unappetising tea. Smeary silver, cups and plates all bearing the impress of Mrs. Griffin’s thumb, two plates of thick bread-and-butter and a tin of bloater-paste were placed upon a dirty tablecloth. Neither Mr. Wycherly nor the boys liked bloater-paste, but Mrs. Griffin did. Hence it graced the feast.