him by the great plaster cast of the Laocoön. “Damn old Brownjohn,” growled Michael. “I think he’s the damnedest old beast that ever lived. I do hate him.” “Oh, bother him,” cried Alan, dancing with excitement. “Look here, I say, at this telegram. It’s just arrived. The porter was frightfully sick at having to give me a telegram. He is a sidy swine. What _do_ you think? My uncle is going to marry Miss Carthew?” “Get out,” scoffed Michael, whose brain, overwhelmed by the pealing thunders of his late interview, refused to register any more shocks. “No, really. Read this.” Michael took the piece of paper and read the news. But he was still under the influence of a bad year, and instead of dancing with Alan to the tune of his excitement, grumbled: “Well, why didn’t Miss Carthew send a telegram to me? I think she might have. I believe this is all bally rot.” Alan’s face changed, changed indeed to an expression of such absolute disappointment that Michael was touched and, forgetting all that he had endured, thrust his arm into Alan’s arm and murmured: “By Jove, old Alan, it is rather decent, isn’t it?” When Michael reached the House, he found a letter from Miss Carthew, which consoled him for that bad year and made him still more penitent for his late ungraciousness towards Alan. C OBBLE P LACE , _July 27_ . _My dear old Michael_ , _You will be tremendously surprized to hear that I am going to marry Captain Ross. I fancy I can hear you say ‘What rot, I don’t believe it!’ But I am, and of course you can understand how gloriously happy I feel, for you know how much you liked him. Poor old boy, I’m afraid you’ve had a horrid time all this year and I wish I hadn’t been so stupid as to get ill, but never mind, it’s over now and Captain Ross and I are coming up to London to fetch you and Alan down here to spend the whole of the holidays and make the wedding a great success. May, Joan and Nancy and my mother all send their very best love and Nancy says she’s looking forward to your new ties (I don’t know what obscure jest of hers this is) and also to hear of your engagement (silly girl!). I shall see you on Wednesday and you’re going to have splendid holidays, I can promise you. Your mother writes to say that she is coming back to live at home in September, so there’ll be no more boarding-school for you. Stella wrote to me from Germany and I hear from Frau Weingardt that everybody prophesies a triumphant career for her, so don’t snub her when she comes back for her holidays in the autumn. Just be as nice as you can, and you can be very nice if you like. Will you? Now, dear old