There were times, of course, when he could be most engagingly pleasant. He was courteous, on occasion, with all the beautiful manners that, we are told, are yielding so sadly before the spread of education and the speed of motor-cars--you never could foretell the guest that he would prefer, and it was nothing to him that here was an aunt, an uncle, or a grandfather who must be placated, and there an uninvited, undesired caller who mattered nothing at all. Mr. Scarlett's father he offended mortally by expressing, in front of him, dislike for hair that grew in bushy profusion out of that old gentleman's ears. "But you could cut it off," he argued, in a voice thick with surprised disgust. His grandfather, who was a baronet, and very wealthy, predicted a dismal career for his grandchild. All the family realised quite definitely that nothing could be done with John. It was fortunate, indeed, that he was, on the whole, of a happy and friendly disposition. He liked the world and things that he found in it. He liked games, and food, and adventure--he liked quite tolerably his family--he liked immensely the prospect of going to school. There were other things--strange, uncertain things--that lay like the dim, uncertain pattern of some tapestry in the back of his mind. He gave _them_, as the months passed, less and less heed. Only sometimes when he was asleep.... Meanwhile, his mother, with the heroism worthy of Boadicea, that great and savage warrior, kept his impulses of devotion, of sacrifice, of adoration, in her heart. John had no need of them; very long ago, Reginald Scarlett, then no K.C., with all the K.C. manner, had told her that _he_ did not need them either. She gave her dinner parties, her receptions, her political gatherings--tremulous and smiling she faced a world that thought her a wise, capable little woman, who would see her husband a judge and peer one of these days. "Mrs. Scarlett--a woman of great social ambition," was their definition of her. "Mrs. Scarlett--the mother of John," was her own. II