George Whaley, with his accumulated savings, purchased immediately upon his leaving the service of Humphrey de Bohun, the good will of the Bohun Arms, which I need hardly tell you does not belong to the family, but to a limited company. The pub stands at the gate of the park. Therein he regales the countryside with comic stories of his former employers; the rich middle-class motorists with scandal of the Great; the upper classes who deign to halt there on their way north in their superb cars with obsequience and silence, at a profit of about 30_s._ the bunch. He has done very well indeed, because it is a convenient lunching place for people motoring out from London to the north. His son is in this year's Oxford eight, but his daughter, I very much regret to say, has published, a book of verse--in Chelsea! Ethelbert, a bright lad of nineteen, ordered by his master into the special constabulary during the third General Strike--I use the conventional numeration--was so unfortunate as to crack smartly upon the head a high dignitary of the Church of England, and was thereupon put in prison at the instance of Lady Sophia--the eminent cleric's wife--who would take no denial. Upon release, the General Strike being still in progress--it was the first of the really _long_ General Strikes, as you will remember, he joined the regular police force, which is ever ready to welcome men of varied experience and initiative. But he never developed the intelligence required for the _agent provocateur_, in which capacity such members of the service as have had personal experience of the cells are commonly employed. He is now past thirty and doing clerical work in the Lost Property Department. What else remains? The horse, Attaboy, is dead, worn out in faithful labours at the stud. He was the sire of Get-On out of Get-Out. Get-Out, I need hardly tell you, was the sire of Success by Morning Star. Success was the sire of Repetition by Raseuse; and that is how Tabouche won the Oaks. I always did say the little filly would do well, for I have followed the strain--as, long ago, the form--of Attaboy, who now sleeps with his fathers--I means, sires, let alone dams. [Illustration: _Controversy conducted with umbrellas between a Professor (of Crystallography) and a Reader (in Crystallogy) to the University._] As for the parrot, whom I may call the second Attaboy, he is still the cherished, the beloved, of that constant heart, Marjorie; Mrs. Munster, _née_ de Bohun, sometime Lady Galton, as also Mrs. Pemberton--yes, Pemberton. So far as I can remember, she is nothing else--so far. Such a charming woman! Touching upon the lovely confines of middle age with large bulges under rather weary eyes. But her father provides handsomely.