The boy squatted promptly at her feet. He wore pink socks and he reeked of scent, yet there was something a little pathetic in his obvious desire to be friendly. "Are you cramming for anything in particular?" I asked him. "I was supposed to go in for the Army," was the dubious reply, "but the exams are so jolly difficult. I failed for Sandhurst twice. Now they're trying to get me in at Cambridge so that I can join a cadet corps." "The exams are so much stiffer since the war," Rose remarked consolingly. "Are any of your people down here with you?" I enquired. The boy shook his head. "I haven't any people to speak of," he confided, "except an uncle I have scarcely ever seen. Another uncle--my father's brother--left me all my money. Sometimes," the young man added, with a queer flash of seriousness which made one forget his socks and his tie and his pimples, "I wish he hadn't." "It must be awfully nice, though, to feel that you've plenty of time in life for games and all that sort of thing," Rose remarked, with a mild attempt at consolation. "I'm not very good at games," the young man confessed. "Mr. Duncombe and his friends are so much better than I am, and they always laugh at me." "That is a very untutorlike thing to do," Rose declared indignantly. The young man looked frightened. "Mr. Duncombe is very good to me--very kind indeed," he repeated, in parrot-like fashion. "Is he?" Rose queried drily. "He has no end of people down so that we shouldn't be dull," the young man went on. "There's his sister--she's very kind to me, too. I think I shall have to marry her." "Why?" Rose asked in bewilderment. "I think Mr. Duncombe would like me to," was the resigned reply. "I am very fond of Ella. She sings and dances beautifully." "How old are you?" Rose enquired. The boy seemed on the point of making another parrot-like reply. Then he chanced to meet the kindly expression in Rose's face as she leaned towards him. He hesitated. "There's a sort of secret about my age," he confided. "Mr. Duncombe likes me to tell every one that I am twenty." "And aren't you?" I asked curiously. He shook his head. "I shall be twenty-one on Saturday," he said. "I shall be able to sign cheques of my own then--and make my will." "What do you want to make your will for?" Rose asked. "You're strong enough, aren't you?" "It is the duty of every one with a great deal of money to make their will directly they are twenty-one," the boy declared, as though repeating a lesson. "If I had my own way," he added, looking up at Rose, "I should leave a great deal of money to you, but I don't suppose I shall be allowed to." "Good gracious, Mr. Dompers!" Rose exclaimed. "Why, I scarcely know you!"