There was a certain serious simplicity about Edward Mottisfont. It was this quality in him which his uncle stigmatised as priggishness. Your true prig is always self-conscious, but Edward was not at all self-conscious. From his own point of view he saw things quite clearly. It was other people’s points of view which had a confusing effect upon him. David laughed. “It didn’t exactly cheer him up,” he said. “He isn’t as set on living as all that comes to.” Edward appeared to be rather struck by this statement. “Isn’t he?” he said. He opened the door as he spoke, but suddenly closed it again. His tone altered. It became eager and boyish. “David, I _say_—you know Jimmy Larkin was transferred to Assam some months ago? Well, I wrote and asked him to remember me if he came across anything like specimens. Of course his forest work gives him simply priceless opportunities. He wrote back and said he would see what he could do, and last mail he sent me——” “What—a package of live scorpions?” “No—not specimens—oh, if he could only have sent the specimen—but it was the next best thing—a drawing—you remember how awfully well Jimmy drew—a coloured drawing of a perfectly new slug.” Edward’s tone became absolutely ecstatic. He began to rumple up his fair hair, as he always did when he was excited. “I can’t find it in any of the books,” he said, “and they’d never even heard of it at the Natural History Museum. Five yellow bands on a black ground—what do you think of that?” “I should say it was Jimmy, larking,” murmured David, getting the door open and departing hastily, but Edward was a great deal too busy wondering whether the slug ought in justice to be called after Jimmy, or whether he might name it after himself, to notice this ribaldry.