"I tell you the kids will be all right. You mustn't get fussy, John. It's absurd to go out now," George protested. "In fact I daren't. I must think of my health. Dr. Burnham who's staying here for a congress of medical men has given me a lot of advice, and as he has refused to charge me a penny for it, the least I can do is to pay attention to what he says. Besides, what are we going to do?" "Visit all the police stations in London." "What shall we gain by doing that? Have you ever been to a police station? They're most uncomfortable places to hang about in before dinner." "Get on your coat," John repeated. George sighed. "Well, if you insist, I suppose you have the right to insist; but in my opinion it's a waste of time. And if the kids are in a police station, I think it would teach them a dashed good lesson to keep them there for awhile. You don't want to encourage them to lose themselves every day. I wish _you_ had half a dozen kids." John, however, was inflexible; the sight of his brother sitting in that aqueous room and pondering the might-have-beens of the race course had kindled in his breast the fire of a reformer; George must be taught that he could not bring children into the world without being prepared to look after them. He must and should be taught. "Why, you'd take more trouble," he declared, "if you'd lost a fox terrier." "Of course I should," George agreed. "I should have to." John reddened with indignation. "Don't be angry, old chap. I didn't mean that I should think more of a fox terrier. But, don't you see, a dog is dependent upon its collar, whereas Bertram and Viola can explain where they come from. Is it very cold out?" "You'd better wear your heavy coat." "That means I shall have to go all the way upstairs," groaned George. The two brothers walked along the hall, and John longed to prod George with a heavy, spiked pole. "Going out, Touchwood?" inquired an elderly man of military appearance, who was practicing golf putts from one cabbage rose to another on the Brussels carpet. "Yes, I'm going out, Major. You know my brother, don't you? You remember Major Downman, John?" George left his brother with the major and toiled listlessly upstairs. "I think I once saw a play of yours, Mr. Touchwood." John smiled as mechanically as the major might have returned a salute. "_The Fall of Nineveh_, wasn't it?" The author bowed an affirmative: it was hardly worth while differentiating between Nineveh and Babylon when he was just going out. "Yes," the major persisted. "Wasn't there a good deal of talk about the scantness of some of the ladies' dresses?" "There may have been," John said. "We had to save on the dresses what we spent on the hanging gardens." "Quite," agreed the major, wisely. "But I'm not a puritan myself." John bowed again to show his appreciation of the admission. "Oh, no. Rather the reverse, in fact. I play golf every Sunday, and if it's wet I play bridge."