“Nobody calls me it, except a lot of fools who think they’re being funny.” “Angelina――――” meditated Jim. “I say!――let go――you’re hurting me!” Edward had caught his ear and was twisting it viciously. “Ouu!” Jim squealed; and promptly kicked his brother on the shins. Edward flung him away and pulled up the leg of his trousers. “Little brute!” he spluttered. “Look what he’s done!” He made another rush, but Jim darted behind Palmer, who held the aggressor at arm’s length. “I say; let him alone; you hurt him first.” Edward hesitated. Then, with a limp suggesting that each step cost him untold agony, he stalked on alone to the house. “I’m afraid we’ve made him really angry,” said Ann, cheerfully. “It was your fault, Balmer, too, because you must have known he would get cross. I didn’t. It was you and Jim.” “He can swear all right,” put in Jim. “Can’t he, Palmer?” “He never _could_ stand being ragged,” said Palmer dispassionately. “I didn’t mean to call him Angelina――it just slipped out. You’d think he’d have got used to it, considering he hears it about a thousand times a day.” But by dinner-time Edward had quite recovered his good-humour. With a round black velvet cap on his bald head Canon Annesley, thin and bent and wrinkled, though intensely alive, sat at the top of the table, having Jim, in a spotlessly-white sailor suit, at his right hand. Jim, at first very quiet and solemn, ventured at length to put his riddle, in an emended form, to grandpapa, substituting “nephew” for “aunt” in the second clause; and grandpapa guessed it. “Perhaps you have some riddles you would like to ask _me_?” Jim murmured insinuatingly, his bright untroubled eyes fixed upon grandpapa’s wrinkled visage. Grandpapa only shook his head. “Look not for whales in the Euxine sea, nor expect great matters where they are not to be found.” This reply, which was in itself a kind of riddle, did not satisfy Jim. “Are there none in your book?” he questioned. “In _my_ book?” “The book you’re writing.” “Oh, I see. I don’t remember any. I might introduce a few.” “Miss Johnson is writing a novel.” The clear voice of the little boy was definite as a publisher’s announcement, and Miss Johnson became covered with confusion. “It’s called _Be True, Fond Heart_,” Jim pursued calmly, “and the hero’s twenty-seven years old, and the heroine’s twenty-two. It’s _his_ heart that is fond. He’s called Reginald. She doesn’t find out about it till he’s dying――I mean about his heart. He gets wounded out shooting, and she nurses him, but it’s no use. And then he tells her that he never told her, because she was an heiress; and she tells him that she was sure all along he was in love with her friend; and a specialist comes from London to see him, and he dies.” “The accident due to an explosion of his gun, I suppose?” Jim did not know. “_Was_ it that, Miss Johnson?” he asked.