It was her children's education that now worried Mrs. Ogden most. Not that she cared very much what they learnt; her fetish was how and where they learnt it. She had been a Routledge before her marriage, a fact which haunted her day and night. "Poor as rats, and silly proud as peacocks," someone had once described them. "We Routledges"--"The Routledges never do that"--"The Routledges never do this!" Round and round like squirrels in a cage, treading the wheel of their useless tradition, living beyond their limited means, occasionally stooping to accept a Government job, but usually finding all work _infra dig_. Living on their friends, which somehow was not _infra dig._, soothing their pride by recounting among themselves and to all who would listen the deeds of valour of one Admiral Sir William Routledge, said to have been Nelson's darling--hanging their admiral's picture with laurel wreaths on the anniversary of some bygone battle and never failing to ask their friends to tea on that occasion--such were the Routledges of Chesham, and such, in spite of many reverses, had Mary Ogden remained. True, Chesham had been sold up, and the admiral's portrait by Romney bought by the docile Bishop of Blumfield at the request of his wife Ann. True, Ann and Mary had been left penniless when their father, Captain Routledge, died of lung hæmorrhage in India. True, Ann had been glad enough to marry her bishop, then a humble chaplain, while Mary followed suit with Major Ogden of The Buffs. True, their brother Henry had failed to distinguish himself in any way and had bequeathed nothing to his family but heavy liabilities when his haemorrhage removed him in the nick of time--true, all true, and more than true, but they were still Routledges! And Admiral Sir William still got his laurel wreaths on the anniversary of the battle. He had moved from the decaying walls of Chesham to the substantial walls of the bishop's palace, and perhaps he secretly liked the change--Ann his descendant did. In the humbler drawing-room at Leaside he received like homage; for there, in a conspicuous position, hung a print of the famous portrait, and every year when the great day came round, Mary, his other descendant, dutifully placed her smaller laurel wreath round the frame, and asked her friends to tea as tradition demanded. "Once a Routledge always a Routledge," Mrs. Ogden was fond of saying on such occasions. And if the colonel happened to feel in a good temper he would murmur, "Fine old chap, Sir William; looks well in his laurels, Mary. Who did you say was coming in this afternoon?" But if on the other hand his heart had been troubling him, he might turn away with a scornful grunt. Then Mary, the ever tactless, would query, "Doesn't it look nice then, dear?" And once, only once, the colonel had said, "Oh, hell!"