“Once I had assured the prospective mothers of his children that they would not be sacked and that their destined contributions to the population would be a charge upon me--there is a codicil to my will to this effect--they brightened up considerably, and rather too frequently snatches of the Froth-Blowers’ Anthem cruised down to me as they went about their duties. In fact, I had a discreditable impression that the Immaculate Third would have shown less lachrymose integrity had the consequences of surrender been revealed _ante factum_. Eventually a brace of male infants came to contribute their falsettos to the dirge--for whose appearance the locals have respectfully given me the credit. These brats have searching, malign eyes, and when they reach the age of puberty I should not be surprised if the birth statistics for East Surrey began to show a remarkable--even a magical--rise. “Oh, how good it is to talk to you, Teddie, and get it all off my chest! I feel almost light-hearted, as though my poor old brain had been curetted. I feel I can face and fight it now. “Well, for the next month I drowsed and read and drowsed and read until I felt two-lunged again. And several times I almost wrote to you, but I felt such lethargy and yet such a certainty of getting quite well again that I put everything off. I was content to lie back and let that blessed healing process work its quiet kindly way with me. “And then one day I got a letter from a friend of mine, Melrose, who was at the House when we were up. He is the Secretary of ‘Ye Ancient Mysteries,’ a dining club I joined before the War. It meets once a month and discusses famous mysteries of the past--the _Mary Celeste_, the ‘McLachlan Case,’ and so on--with a flippant yet scholarly zeal; but that doesn’t matter. Well, Melrose said that Clinton wanted to become a member, and had stressed the fact that he was a friend of mine. Melrose was a little upset, as he had heard vague rumours about Clinton. Did I think he was likely to be an acceptable member of the club? “Well, what was I to say? On the one side of the medal were the facts that he had used my house as his stud-farm, that he had forged my name and sponged on me shamelessly. On the reverse was the fact that he was a genius and knew more about Ancient Mysteries than the rest of the world put together. But my mind was soon made up; I could not recommend him. A week later I got a letter--a charming letter, a most understanding letter, from Clinton. He realised, so he said, that I had been bound to give the secretary of the Ancient Mysteries the advice I had--no doubt I considered he was not a decent person to meet my friends. He was naturally disappointed, and so on. “How the devil, I wondered, did he know--not only that I had put my thumbs down against him, but also the very reason for which I had put them down!