This was not in the least what Jim had bargained for, and he attempted to divert Aunt Caroline’s thoughts by proposing that they should light a bonfire on the drive as a signal to Mr. Drummond and Robert. Meanwhile Bridget appeared with a bowl of soup, and other delicacies. These she set before Grif, who was conscious of being much more in the limelight than seemed at all necessary. “You must eat an enormous supper,” Aunt Caroline warned him. “Otherwise I shall think your outing has made you ill, and be really angry.” “There’s a circus coming, and we’re going to it,” Jim called from the door, where he still hovered, in spite of the failure of the bonfire scheme. “You certainly won’t go unless you’re in bed in five minutes,” Aunt Caroline replied. Jim scuttled away, and presently he and Ann could be heard engaged in a struggle on the stairs. “I’m afraid I didn’t bring you back your net, Palmer,” said Grif. “I think I must have left it at the Batts’.” “Ah, the searchers have returned!” cried grandpapa, as the sound of a closing door, and then of footsteps in the hall, reached them. “Come in, Drummond,” he called out, and next moment a youthful, smooth-faced parson entered. “Behold him!” The canon waved a hand at his grandson. “The cause of all your trouble! It was really very good of you. You ought to have a whisky and soda to counteract the effects of your exertions. Next time we’ll leave him to look after himself.” Mr. Drummond refused the whisky and soda, but accepted, at the hands of Miss Johnson, a glass of Eiffel Tower lemonade. “Where was he?” he murmured. “Oh, just paying a round of visits. First of all he called on the Batts――Captain Narcissus and his sisters:――natural enough that he should seek companions of his own years. What did you think of the captain, Grif?” “I thought him very nice.” “So he is. Wonderful man in his way. Makes all his own clothes, Drummond――boots too, I believe.” Mr. Drummond was unimpressed. “I think they might have sent him home a little earlier. They must have known you would be anxious about him.” “Oh, he didn’t stay _there_ all the time. He also called on Mr. Clement Bradley, and spent a few hours with him――four or five, I think it was.” The curate did not smile. In his opinion this was not the proper spirit in which to take Grif’s escapade. He was inclined to agree with Miss Johnson, who had confided to him, over croquet, that she was afraid the children were going to be spoiled. “That’s more than _you’ve_ ever done,” the canon went on gaily. “Yes. I don’t care for him.” “He’s harmless enough,” the canon laughed. “A little odd, though the oddest thing about him is that he should be here at all. He’s an Oxford man, you know――in fact he was at my own college――and there’s no doubt he’s a capable musician.” “The explanations of such mysteries are not far to seek as a rule,” the curate replied uncharitably.