In the North he left behind him everything but the accent which, to his own no small grief, and the unending anguish of his wife, he carried to the grave, and the money he had made in gloomy Lancashire. He bought a villa in Croydon, modified his name under expert advice, and in the sun of the South country began to live. Mr. Royal of Deepdene had made money in business in the North. Now he was going to spend it in the South. Here began the second part of the Programme. He married a middle-class woman, who had been a companion, and possessed some not very well-founded pretensions to family. He entered the Church, ignoring formal admission by baptism, and took an active part in the life of the Town. Capable and tireless, he became in time a Town Councillor, and, better still, a Justice of the Peace for Surrey. His grand ambition, never to be fulfilled in this world, was to be a Deputy Lieutenant of the county of his adoption. There was one child of the marriage, who was christened at his wife's request, and with his full approval, Hildebrand. The boy was sent to a first-rate preparatory school, where, being an aggressive youngster, he more than held his own. Mr. Albert Royal was determined that his son should go to one of "our ancient public schools." When he broached the subject, the headmaster of the preparatory school was in a dilemma. Mr. Royal was an admirable parent from the commercial point of view. He paid the fees and never made a fuss; but there was no getting away from Mr. Royal's accent. Mr. Wortley, an Etonian himself, didn't somehow think Eton was quite the school for Hildebrand. Too damp. There wasn't much chance of a boy getting into Winchester unless his father had been there before him. Had Mr. Royal been at Winchester?--Ah, bad luck. Then Rugby?--But Mr. Royal wouldn't send his son to a North country school. Mr. Royal's home was in the South; and so was his heart. What about Harrow?--Mr. Wortley's face brightened. Harrow was the very thing. He could see Hildebrand at Harrow in his mind's eye. Later when his partner came into the study, after Mr. Royal's departure, Mr. Wortley announced the news with a little grin. "Arrow for Ildebrand," he said. "And quite good enough too," replied the other, who was also an Etonian, with a little snort. To Harrow, then, Hildebrand went. And just at the appropriate moment Mr. Royal Senior died. That was not part of the Programme, but it was consummately tactful. "My father didn't do much. He was a magistrate in Surrey," sounded so much better than the reality incarnate, rough and red and rather harsh--with the Blackpool accent. Mr. Royal's opportune death was, in fact, an immense relief to his suffering wife and perhaps to young Hildebrand, who was beginning to know what was what in the world in which he proposed to live and move and have his being.