Winifred, looking at him with fond shrewdness, answered: “My dear, you _are_ naughty about money. But you shouldn’t pay him to-night, anyway; you’re his guest. How nice and slim he looked in his white waistcoat, and his dark thick lashes!” “Oh, but we may go to the theatre, you see, Mother; and I think I ought to stand the tickets; he’s always hard up, you know.” Winifred produced a five-pound note, saying: “Well, perhaps you’d better pay him, but you mustn’t stand the tickets too.” Val pocketed the fiver. “If I do, I can’t,” he said. “Good-night, Mum!” He went out with his head up and his hat cocked joyously, sniffing the air of Piccadilly like a young hound loosed into covert. Jolly good biz! After that mouldy old slow hole down there! He found his “tutor,” not indeed at the Oxford and Cambridge, but at the Goat’s Club. This “tutor” was a year older than himself, a good-looking youth, with fine brown eyes, and smooth dark hair, a small mouth, an oval face, languid, immaculate, cool to a degree, one of those young men who without effort establish moral ascendancy over their companions. He had missed being expelled from school a year before Val, had spent that year at Oxford, and Val could almost see a halo round his head. His name was Crum, and no one could get through money quicker. It seemed to be his only aim in life—dazzling to young Val, in whom, however, the Forsyte would stand apart, now and then, wondering where the value for that money was.