"Uncle Pom-Pom and Pennington, of course. Chap named Lancaster, and a queer little man—Yovil, I think his name is—all grey and black bristles. He used to be the elocution master at Pennington’s school. He writes, Nell!" "Oh, what does he write?" "There was an article of his in last month’s _Imperial_ on Coleridge. I’m going to get it. Pennington goes to his place every Tuesday—in the evening; some of the other boys who used to go to his school go too, and they talk and read and recite. No fee, you know; he just does it because he likes it—has an idea that when you’ve got to leave school to be a beastly clerk or something of that kind, you let your reading slip. Pennington says he’s cranky on Billy S.!" "Don’t be so irreverent, Denis!" There was a pause. "And the other—Lancaster—what is he like?" "Decent sort of chap, I should think. Don’t know much about him—awfully quiet—hardly spoke to any one. Pennington seems to think a lot of him. He beat me at billiards, anyway. Father’s got a pot of money. There, that’s all I know." Nell sat gazing into the fire. Suddenly her mouth dimpled. "Denis, what do you think I’ve been doing this evening, beyond accounts?" "Daubing." "No. I’ve been looking at things from Aunt Kezia’s point of view." "Oh, lor’!" he said heavily. "And I’ve come to the conclusion it’s pretty hard on her to have four practically unknown relatives dumped down on her." "We’re not sacks of coals," he remonstrated, "and she offered for the post. And we efface ourselves as much as possible. And we’re rather nice, you know." "Sheila Pat went down to Herr Schmidt this evening, and requested him to take her for a walk, as she felt stifled. He did take her, and Aunt Kezia disapproved of that! Molly bet me I couldn’t run up and down the stairs six times without a pause. I did it, and she disapproved of _that_. Poor Molly, trying to jump a hurdle,—two chairs arranged by me,—fell and hurt herself badly. She disapproved of _that_. Certainly she broke the chair," reflectively; "still, it seems to me Aunt Kezia disapproves of everything." "And on top of all that you fall to pitying her! I can’t rise to your heights at all, my dear." Nell, chin in hand, puckered her brow thoughtfully. "Why, you see, from her point of view we’re a horrid nuisance—" "Oh, are we, indeed? I wish Sheila Pat could hear you! Nell, if I don’t go to bed at once, you’ll arrive at the point of considering our respected aunt a martyred saint, and us the bad little imps who got her her crown! Well, anyway, the imps are useful! For isn’t it a grand thing to be a martyr, and aren’t we helping her to be one? I’m going to bed." "Lazy!" "My dear, remember I am now a working man. Remember what my earnings are to go towards—" He broke off suddenly. "Nell, why can’t I write a book or a play, and make my fortune?" "You will soon." He shook his head.