“Well, if I can do anything for you I shall be delighted. If you are in any trouble, come straight to me.” He slightly emphasised the last sentence. I rather wondered what sort of trouble Sir William envisaged for me. Probably he shared the general opinion that artists were quite mad at times, and that when I had one of my lapses I should destroy the peace in some manner. However, I was duly grateful. I was sorry to find Tim didn’t seem to like the river; he appeared nervous of it, and I determined to help him to overcome this, for the fewer terrors one carries through life with one the better, and they can often be laid by delicate treatment in childhood. Curiously enough the year before at Frinton he seemed to have no fear of the sea. The rest of the day passed uneventfully--at least I think I can say so. After dinner I strolled down to the end of the garden, meaning to go through the door and have a look at the river. Just as I got my hand on the latch there came a very sharp, furtive whistle. I turned round quickly, but seeing no one, concluded it had come from someone in the lane outside. However, I didn’t investigate further, but went back to the house. I woke up the next morning feeling a shade depressed. My dressing-room smelled stale and bitter, and I flung its windows open. As I did so I felt my right foot slip on something. It was one of those small, slimy, green patches. Now Tim would never come into my dressing-room. An annoying little puzzle. How on earth had that patch----? Which question kept forcing its way into my mind as I dressed. How could a patch of green slime...? How could a patch of green slime...? Dropped from something? From what? I am very fond of my wife--she slaved for me when I was poor, and always has kept me happy, comfortable and faithful, and she gave me my small son Timothy. I must stand between her and patches of green slime! What in hell’s name was I talking about? And it was a flamingly fine day. Yet all during breakfast my mind was trying to find some sufficient reason for these funny little patches of green slime, and not finding it. After breakfast I told Tim I would take him out in a boat on the river. “Must I, Daddy?” he asked, looking anxiously at me. “No, of course not,” I replied, a trifle irritably, “but I believe you’ll enjoy it.” “Should I be a funk if I didn’t come?” “No, Tim, but I think you should try it once, anyway.” “All right,” he said. He’s a plucky little chap, and did his very best to pretend to be enjoying himself, but I saw it was a failure from the start. Perplexed and upset, I asked his nurse if she knew of any reason for this sudden fear of water. “No, sir,” she said. “The first day he ran down to the river just as he used to run down to the sea, but all of a sudden he started crying and ran back to the house. It seemed to me he’d seen something in the water which frightened him.”