“Valérie, I couldn’t. Look at this great barrack of a house. If you only knew how I long sometimes for—what a muddle it all is!” Then a footman came in with tea, and Michael wondered what dinner was like in this house, if mere tea were so grand and silvery. “I think I must drive you back in the phaeton,” said Lord Saxby. “No, no, Charles. No more rules must be broken.” “Yes, I suppose you’re right. But don’t—not again, please. I can’t bear to think of the ‘ifs.’” Then Lord Saxby turned to Michael. “Look here, young man, what do you want most?” “Oh, boxes of soldiers and an unused set of Siamese,” said Michael. “Siamese what? Siamese cats?” “No, you silly,” laughed Michael, “Stamps, of course!” “Oh, stamps,” said Lord Saxby. “Right—and soldiers, eh? Good.” All the way back in the hansom Michael wished he had specified Artillery to Lord Saxby; but two days afterwards dozens of boxes of all kinds of soldiers arrived, and unused sets not merely of Siamese, but of North American Tercentenaries and Borneos and Labuans and many others. “I say,” Michael gasped, “he’s a ripper, isn’t he? What spiffing boxes! I say, he is a decent chap, isn’t he? When are we going to see Lord Saxby again, mother?” “Some day.” “I can have Norton to tea on Wednesday, can’t I?” begged Michael. “He’ll think my soldiers are awfully ripping.” “Darling Michael,” said his mother. “Mother, I will try and not be inky,” said Michael in a burst of affectionate renunciation. “Dearest boy,” said his mother gently. Chapter IX: _Holidays in France_