"You’re looking well, Peter!" he exclaimed, still shaking the Admiral by the hand. "My dear Jack! My dear old Jack!" cried the latter. "Here! come into the house!" "No, no," laughed his friend, with a suspicious glance at the diminutive window. "Stuffy. No. Looks pleasant under the elm." "Why, come along, then!" shouted the Admiral, dragging him towards the tree. Lord Otford took off his hat to Mrs. Poskett with an elaborate bow. "I say, Peter, in clover, you rascal!" "Dam fine woman—what?" Here Lord Otford caught sight of Marjolaine just disappearing in the doorway of Number Three. He stopped short. "Ay, and pretty gel on door-step." Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, "By Jove!" "Dainty little thing, eh?" said the Admiral with a chuckle. "Yes," replied the nobleman, pensively. "Reminds me vaguely—" but he changed the subject. "Well! You’re hale and hearty!" "Nothing amiss with you, neither," laughed Sir Peter, sitting on the bench and drawing his friend down beside him. "I am glad to see you! Thought you was in Russia." "Got home a month ago, Peter. Not married yet?" "Peter Antrobus married? That’s a good ’un." Up went the Admiral’s finger to his nose. "No, my Lord. All women, yes. One woman, no!" "Sure nobody can hear us?" Sir Peter looked round cautiously. Save for the Eyesore, absorbed in his placid effort to catch fish, there was no sign of life in the Walk. Nobody was visible at the windows. From Number Three came the sound of a fresh young voice singing scales and arpeggios. "Quite safe, Jack," said he. "Peter, I want your help." "Woman?" asked Sir Peter. "Yes. Not my woman, though, this time. It’s about my boy—Jack." "Aha! Got into a mess? Chip of the old block—what?" "No, no. Marriage." "Gobblessmysoul! How old is he?" "Twenty-five." "Good Lord!" "I want to see Jack settled. There ’s the succession to think of." "You talk as though you was a king." "Well, so I am, in a small way. Think of the estate! I want Jack to take the reins." "How can he, when he ’s on the sea?" "He’s to retire as soon as he gets his Captaincy." The Admiral jumped up. "Retire! Now! With Boney ready to gobble us up!" Otford drew him down again. "Don’t you see? With all this battle and bloodshed, now’s the time for Jack to give me a grandson. He ’s my only child, remember. Why, hang it, man, if he was to die without issue, the title and the estates would go to that infernal whig scoundrel, James Sayle." "That won’t do," Sir Peter assented, wisely nodding his head. "Of course it won’t. Now, there’s old Wendover’s gel—Caroline Thring." [Illustration: CAROLINE THRING] The Admiral made a wry face. "Caroline Thring? I’ve heard of her. Never seen her: but heard of her. Eccentric party, ain’t she? And did n’t I hear there was an affair with Young Beauchamp?" "That’s fallen through. She’s an estimable person." "Ugh," said the Admiral.