“Rather! I used to come here whenever it got too hot for me at home. It’s no good scrapping with your governor, because he’s got the ooftish--it’s a jolly unfair advantage that fathers have, but they always take it. So when the old chap flew into a passion, I used to say, ‘I won’t argue with you. If you can’t treat me like a gentleman, I shall go away for a week.’ And I used to come here. Aunt Polly always gave me five quid, and said, ‘Don’t tell me how you spend it, because I shouldn’t approve; but come again when you want some more.’ She’s is a ripper, ain’t she!” “I’m sorry she’s not in.” “I’m rather glad, because I can have a long talk with you till she comes. I’ve never seen you before, so I have such a lot to say.” “Have you?” said Bertha, laughing. “That’s rather unusual in young men.” He looked so absurdly young that Bertha could not help treating him as a schoolboy; and she was amused at his communicativeness. She wanted him to tell her his escapades, but was afraid to ask. “Are you very hungry?” She thought that boys always had appetites. “Would you like some tea?” “I’m starving.” She poured him out a cup, and taking it and three jam sandwiches, he sat on a footstool at her feet. He made himself quite at home. “You’ve never seen my Vaudrey cousins, have you?” he asked, with his mouth full. “I can’t stick ’em at any price, they’re such frumps. I’ll tell ’em all about you; it’ll make them beastly sick.” Bertha raised her eyebrows. “And do you object to frumps?” “I simply loathe them. At the last tutor’s I was at, the old chap’s wife was the most awful old geezer you ever saw. So I wrote and told my mater that I was afraid my morals were being corrupted.” “And did she take you away?” “Well, by a curious coincidence, the old chap wrote the very same day, and told the pater if he didn’t remove me he’d give me the shoot. So I sent in my resignation, and told him his cigars were poisonous, and cleared out.” “Don’t you think you’d better sit on a chair?” said Bertha. “You must be very uncomfortable on that footstool.” “Oh no, not at all. After a Turkey carpet and a dining-room table, there’s nothing so comfy as a footstool. A chair always makes me feel respectable--and dull.” Bertha thought Gerald rather a nice name. “How long are you staying in London?” “Oh, only a month, worse luck. Then I’ve got to go to the States to make my fortune and reform.” “I hope you will.” “Which? One can’t do both at once, you know. You make your money first, and you reform afterwards, if you’ve got time. But whatever happens, it’ll be a good sight better than sweating away at an everlasting crammer’s. If there is one man I can’t stick at any price it’s the army crammer.” “You have a large experience of them, I understand.” “I wish you didn’t know all my past history. Now I shan’t have the sport of telling you.” “I don’t think it would be edifying.”