"The fact is," he told himself, "that ever since I heard Doris Hamilton make that remark in the saloon of the _Murmania_, I've become suspicious of my family. She began it, and then by ill luck I was thrown too much with Laurence, who clinched it. Eleanor is right: I _am_ letting myself be spoilt by success. After all, there's no reason why those two children shouldn't come here. _They_ won't be writing plays about apostles. I'll send George a box of cigars to show that I didn't mean to sneer at him. And why didn't I offer to pay for Eleanor's taxi? Yes, I am getting spoilt. I must watch myself. And I ought not to have joked about Eleanor's age." Luckily his sister-in-law had finished the champagne, for if John had drunk another glass he might have offered her the part of the Maid herself. The actual arrival of Bertram and Viola passed off more successfully. They were both presentable, and John was almost flattered when Mrs. Worfolk commented on their likeness to him, remembering what a nightmare it had always seemed when Hilda used to excavate points of resemblance between him and Harold. Mrs. Worfolk herself was so much pleased to have him back from Ambles that she was in the best of good humours, and even the statuesque Maud flushed with life like some Galatea. "I think Maud's a darling, don't you, Uncle John?" exclaimed Viola. "We all appreciate Maud's--er--capabilities," John hemmed. He felt that it was a silly answer, but inasmuch as Maud was present at the time he could not, either for his sake or for hers give an unconditional affirmative. "I swopped four blood-allys for an Indian in the break," Bertram announced. "With an Indian, my boy, I suppose you mean." "No, I don't. I mean for an Indian--an Indian marble. And I swopped four Guatemalas for two Nicaraguas." "You ought to be at the Foreign Office." "But the ripping thing is, Uncle John, that two of the Guatemalas are fudges." "Such a doubtful coup would not debar you from a diplomatic career." "And I say, what is the Foreign Office? We've got a French chap in my class." "You ask for an explanation of the Foreign Office. That, my boy, might puzzle the omniscience of the Creator." "I say, I don't twig very well what you're talking about." "The attributes of the Foreign Office, my boy, are rigidity where there should be suppleness, weakness where there should be firmness, and for intelligence the substitution of hair brushed back from the forehead." "I say, you're ragging me, aren't you? No, really, what is the Foreign Office?" "It is the ultimate preserve of a privileged imbecility." Bertram surrendered, and John congratulated himself upon the possession of a nephew whose perseverance and curiosity had been sapped by a scholastic education.