“I don’t know. He says it’s uncertain. You see, he’s coming over on a tramp steamer.” “A tramp steamer? Why?” “Well, it’s the sort of thing he does. Sort of thing I’d like to do too.” “You?” said Kay, amazed. Willoughby Braddock had always seemed to her a man to whose well-being the refinements--and even the luxuries--of civilisation were essential. One of her earliest recollections was of sitting in a tree and hurling juvenile insults at him, it having come to her ears through reliable channels that he habitually wore bed socks. “What nonsense, Willoughby! You would hate roughing it.” “I wouldn’t,” said Mr. Braddock stoutly. “I’d love a bit of adventure.” “Well, why don’t you have it? You’ve got plenty of money. You could be a pirate of the Spanish Main if you wanted.” Mr. Braddock shook his head wistfully. “I can’t get away from Mrs. Lippett.” Willoughby Braddock was one of those unfortunate bachelors who are doomed to live under the thrall of either a housekeeper or a valet. His particular cross in life was his housekeeper, his servitude being rendered all the more unescapable by the fact that Mrs. Lippett had been his nurse in the days of his childhood. There are men who can defy a woman. There are men who can cope with a faithful old retainer. But if there are men who can tackle a faithful old female retainer who has frequently smacked them with the back of a hairbrush, Willoughby Braddock was not one of them. “She would have a fit or go into a decline or something if I tried to break loose.” “Poor old Willoughby! Life can be very hard, can’t it? By the way, I met my uncle outside. He was complaining that you were not very chummy.” “No, was he?” “He said you just sat there looking at him like a goldfish.” “Oh, I say!” said Mr. Braddock remorsefully. “I’m awfully sorry. I mean, after he’s been so decent, putting me up and everything. I hope you explained to him that I was frightfully worried about this speech.” “Yes, I did. But I don’t see why you should be. It’s perfectly simple making a speech. Especially at an Old Boys’ dinner, where they won’t expect anything very much. If I were you, I should just get up and tell them one or two funny stories and sit down again.” “I’ve got one story,” said Mr. Braddock more hopefully. “It’s about an Irishman.” “Pat or Mike?” “I thought of calling him Pat. He’s in New York and he goes down to the dock and he sees a diver coming up out of the water--in a diving suit, you know--and he thinks the fellow--the diver, you understand--has walked across the Atlantic and wishes he had thought of doing the same himself, so as to have saved the fare, don’t you know.” “I see. One of those weak-minded Irishmen.” “Do you think it will amuse them?” asked Mr. Braddock anxiously. “I should think they would roll off their seats.” “No, really?” He broke off and stretched out a hand in alarm. “I say, you weren’t thinking of having one of those rock cakes, were you?”