"It’s all very fine to talk of opening your house to people in need; but it’s not as easy as it looks." "Is anything ever as easy as it looks, dad? Don’t we shirk the social problems that are upsetting the world by declaring them impossible to solve, when a material difficulty only puts us on our mettle?" He turned this over. All that day he had been calculating his own possible responsibility in Teddy Follett’s going wrong, and was thinking of it now. In the end he said: "All the same you’ve got to follow the regular trend. If you were in business you’d know. You can’t do things differently from other people. You may be as sorry as you like not to be able to help; but if you can’t, you can’t—and there’s an end of it." "Mr. Ayling in his new book, _Social Problems and the Individual_, says there’s a distinction to be drawn between _can’t_ and _can’t_—there’s the can’t that comes from lack of ability, and the can’t that springs from the accepted standard. He says—" "I don’t believe your father is at all interested in that, Edith dear." "Oh yes; let her go on. I’m not afraid of what Ayling thinks." But before Edith could resume the attention of all three was called by the tinkle of the telephone bell in the library, which could be approached from the terrace through the drawing-room. With a muttered, "Who’s ringing up at this time of night?" Collingham dragged himself in to answer it. The women remained silent, each listening to see if the call was for her. "Yes?... This is Mr. Collingham.... Who?... Oh, it’s you, Mr. Brunt?... Yes?... What did you say?... Killed? Who’s killed?... Not Flynn the detective, who comes in and out of the bank?... Indeed! Dear me! Dear me! Where was it?... Who did it?... Not that boy?... Oh, my God!... What happened?... Tell me quickly.... Over beyond Jersey City! Yes? Yes?... And they’ve got him?... In the Brig? That’s the Ellenbrook jail, isn’t it?... Jackman, too, did you say?... Wounded, but not killed.... Badly?... Oh, the poor fellow!... In the hospital?... That’s right.... Has anyone communicated with his family?... Good! Good!... And Flynn’s wife?... Oh, the poor woman!... And the boy’s family?... You don’t know anything? Then no one has informed his mother?... Not that you know of.... I see.... He’s to be brought into court to-morrow morning.... Poor little devil!... Oh, I know he doesn’t deserve pity, but—but I can’t help it, Brunt. His father was with us so long and—and one thing and another!... No; I’ll appear in court myself and see what I can do for him.... Good night, then. I’ll see you in the morning." "What boy can that be?" Junia whispered, as her husband hung the receiver in its place. "I’m sure I don’t know—unless—unless it’s the Follett boy." "Oh, I hope not. It would make such awful complications." They waited for Collingham to come and tell them his plainly thrilling news, but he remained in the library.