'Sure,' said his mother. 'Sure it is. I guess dad's try at cornering wheat was about the most profitable thing that ever happened--to the other fellows. It seems like they got busy and clubbed fifty-seven varieties of Hades out of your old grand-pop. He's got to give up a lot of his expensive habits, and one of them is sending money to us. That's how it is.' 'And on top of that, mind you,' moaned Lord Runnymede, 'I lose my little veto. It's bitter--bitter.' Clarence lit a cigarette and drew at it thoughtfully. 'I don't see how we're going to manage on twelve thousand quid a year,' he said. His mother crisply revised his pronouns. 'We aren't,' she said. 'You've got to get out and hustle.' Clarence looked at her blankly. 'Me?' 'You.' 'Work?' 'Work.' Clarence drew a deep breath. 'Work? Well, of course, mind you, fellows _do_ work,' he went on, thoughtfully. 'I was lunching with a man at the Bachelor's only yesterday who swore he knew a fellow who had met a man whose cousin worked. But I don't see what I could do, don't you know.' His father raised himself on the sofa. 'Haven't I given you the education of an English gentleman?' 'That's the difficulty,' said Clarence. 'Can't you do _anything_?' asked his mother. 'Well, I can play footer. By Jove, I'll sign on as a pro. I'll take a new name. I'll call myself Jones. I can get signed on in a minute. Any club will jump at me.' This was no idle boast. Since early childhood Clarence had concentrated his energies on becoming a footballer, and was now an exceedingly fine goal-keeper. It was a pleasing sight to see him, poised on one foot in the attitude of a Salome dancer, with one eye on the man with the ball, the other gazing coldly on the rest of the opposition forward line, uncurl abruptly like the main-spring of a watch and stop a hot one. Clarence in goal was the nearest approach to an india-rubber acrobat and society contortionist to be seen off the music-hall stage. He was, in brief, hot stuff. He had the goods. Scarcely had he uttered these momentous words when the butler entered with the announcement that he was wanted by a lady on the telephone. It was Isabel, disturbed and fearful. 'Oh, Clarence,' she cried, 'my precious angel wonder-child, I don't know how to begin.' 'Begin just like that,' said Clarence, approvingly. 'It's topping. You can't beat it.' 'Clarence, a terrible thing has happened. I told papa of our engagement, and he wouldn't hear of it. He c-called you a a p-p-p--' 'A what?' 'A pr-pr-pr--' 'He's wrong. I'm nothing of the sort. He must be thinking of someone else.' 'A preposterous excrescence on the social cosmos. He doesn't like your father being an earl.' 'A man may be an earl and still a gentleman,' said Clarence, not without a touch of coldness in his voice. 'I forgot to tell him that. But I don't think it would make any difference. He says I shall only marry a man who works.'