She took him upstairs to their sitting-room, and he told her how distressed he was at the news that had reached him and to find his brother living in such a humble place. He added that it was a serious blow to all his family, but that, for his part, the world being what it was and life on it being also what it was, he hoped that all might be for the best. Matilda let him have his say and tactfully led him on to talk about himself, and he told her all about his practice at the Chancery Bar, and the wine at his club, and his rooms in Gray's Inn, and his collection of Battersea china, and his trouble with the committee of his golf club, and his dislike for most of his relations except his brother Herbert, who was the last man in the world, as he said, he had ever expected to go off the rails. She assured him then that Herbert was the best and kindest of men, and that it would not be her fault if their subsequent career did not astonish and delight him. She did not drop a single aitch, and, noticing carefully his London pronunciation, she mentally resolved to change her broad a's and in future to call a schoolmaster a schoolmarster. . . . Their conversation came abruptly to an end, and she produced a pack of cards and taught him how to play German whist. From that he led her to double-dummy Bridge, and they were still at it when his brother returned. Matilda was scolded for being up so late, kissed, by both men, and packed off to bed. Whisky was produced. Said brother Robert: "Well, of all the lunatics!" "So you've been shocked and amazed and horrified. Do the others know?" "Not yet. . . . I thought I'd better see you first." "All right. Tell them that I'm married and have become a rogue and a vagabond." "You're not going on with this?" "I am." "Don't be a fool. Your wife's perfectly charming. There's nothing against her." "That's had nothing to do with it. I'm going on for my own satisfaction. I've spent half my life in teaching. I want to spend the rest of it in learning." "From play-actors? Oh! come!" "My dear Robert, life isn't at all what you think it is. It isn't what I thought it was. I'm interested. I'm eager. I'm keen. . . ." "And mad. . . ." "Maybe. But I tell you that life's got a heart to it somewhere, and I'm going to find my way to it." "Then you're not going back?" "Never: neither to the old work, nor to the old kind of people." "Not even when I tell you that Uncle Jocelyn is dead at last and has left us each ten thousand! Doesn't that make any difference, H. J.?"