The Pembrokes lived in an adjacent suburb, or rather “sububurb,”—the tract called Sawston, celebrated for its public school. Their style of life, however, was not particularly suburban. Their house was small and its name was Shelthorpe, but it had an air about it which suggested a certain amount of money and a certain amount of taste. There were decent water-colours in the drawing-room. Madonnas of acknowledged merit hung upon the stairs. A replica of the Hermes of Praxiteles—of course only the bust—stood in the hall with a real palm behind it. Agnes, in her slap-dash way, was a good housekeeper, and kept the pretty things well dusted. It was she who insisted on the strip of brown holland that led diagonally from the front door to the door of Herbert’s study: boys’ grubby feet should not go treading on her Indian square. It was she who always cleaned the picture-frames and washed the bust and the leaves of the palm. In short, if a house could speak—and sometimes it does speak more clearly than the people who live in it—the house of the Pembrokes would have said, “I am not quite like other houses, yet I am perfectly comfortable. I contain works of art and a microscope and books. But I do not live for any of these things or suffer them to disarrange me. I live for myself and for the greater houses that shall come after me. Yet in me neither the cry of money nor the cry for money shall ever be heard.” Mr. Pembroke was at the station. He did better as a host than as a guest, and welcomed the young man with real friendliness. “We were all coming, but Gerald has strained his ankle slightly, and wants to keep quiet, as he is playing next week in a match. And, needless to say, that explains the absence of my sister.” “Gerald Dawes?” “Yes; he’s with us. I’m so glad you’ll meet again.” “So am I,” said Rickie with extreme awkwardness. “Does he remember me?” “Vividly.” Vivid also was Rickie’s remembrance of him. “A splendid fellow,” asserted Mr. Pembroke. “I hope that Agnes is well.” “Thank you, yes; she is well. And I think you’re looking more like other people yourself.” “I’ve been having a very good time with a friend.” “Indeed. That’s right. Who was that?” Rickie had a young man’s reticence. He generally spoke of “a friend,” “a person I know,” “a place I was at.” When the book of life is opening, our readings are secret, and we are unwilling to give chapter and verse. Mr. Pembroke, who was half way through the volume, and had skipped or forgotten the earlier pages, could not understand Rickie’s hesitation, nor why with such awkwardness he should pronounce the harmless dissyllable “Ansell.” “Ansell? Wasn’t that the pleasant fellow who asked us to lunch?” “No. That was Anderson, who keeps below. You didn’t see Ansell. The ones who came to breakfast were Tilliard and Hornblower.” “Of course. And since then you have been with the Silts. How are they?” “Very well, thank you. They want to be remembered to you.”