“There has always been some man--I’ve always known there has. And now it’s Petherton,” said his companion. “But where’s the attraction?” “In HIM? Why lots of women could tell you. Petherton has had a career.” “But I mean in old Jane.” “Well, I dare say lots of men could tell you. She’s no older than any one else. She has also such great elements.” “Oh I dare say she’s all right,” Brookenham returned as if his interest in the case had dropped. You might have felt you got a little nearer to him on guessing that in so peopled a circle satiety was never far from him. “I mean for instance she has such a grand idea of duty. She thinks we’re nowhere!” “Nowhere?” “With our children--with our home life. She’s awfully down on Tishy.” “Tishy?”--Edward appeared for a moment at a loss. “Tishy Grendon--and her craze for Nanda.” “Has she a craze for Nanda?” “Surely I told you Nanda’s to be with her for Easter.” “I believe you did,” he bethought himself, “but you didn’t say anything about a craze. And where’s Harold?” he went on. “He’s at Brander. That is he will be by dinner. He has just gone.” “And how does he get there?” “Why by the South-Western. They’ll send to meet him.” Brookenham appeared for a moment to view this statement in the dry light of experience. “They’ll only send if there are others too.” “Of course then there’ll be others--lots. The more the better for Harold.” This young man’s father was silent a little. “Perhaps--if they don’t play high.” “Ah,” said his mother, “however Harold plays he has a way of winning.” “He has a way too of being a hopeless ass. What I meant was how he comes there at all,” Edward explained. “Why as any one comes--by being invited. She wrote to him--weeks ago.” Brookenham just traceably took this in, but to what profit was not calculable. “To Harold? Very good-natured.” He had another short reflexion, after which he continued: “If they don’t send he’ll be in for five miles in a fly--and the man will see that he gets his money.” “They WILL send--after her note.” “Did it say so?” Her melancholy eyes seemed, from afar, to run over the page. “I don’t remember--but it was so cordial.” Again he meditated. “That often doesn’t prevent one’s being let in for ten shillings.” There was more gloom in this forecast than his wife had desired to produce. “Well, my dear Edward, what do you want me to do? Whatever a young man does, it seems to me, he’s let in for ten shillings.” “Ah but he needn’t be--that’s my point. _I_ wasn’t at his age.” Harold’s mother took up her book again. “Perhaps you weren’t the same success! I mean at such places.” “Well, I didn’t borrow money to make me one--as I’ve a sharp idea our young scamp does.” Mrs. Brookenham hesitated. “From whom do you mean--the Jews?” He looked at her as if her vagueness might be assumed. “No. They, I take it, are not quite so cordial to him, since you call it so, as the old ladies. He gets it from Mitchy.”