Edward Caspar sat and sweated. It was of course the elder man who spoke first. "Hullo, youngster!" he called cheerily. "What might be your name?" The child's face wrought just like his father's, as he struggled with some invisible obstacle. "Ernie Gug--gug--Gaspod," he said at last. "Ernie Gaspipe," laughed the other. "Is your daddy a plumber?" The child's hand left his horse's mane and shot out a chubby finger. "That's my dad--daddy," he said. There was the sound of swift feet in the passage, a blue arm reached fiercely forth, and the child was swept back to the kitchen. Mr. Caspar's eye flashed on his son's grey and quaking face and flashed away again. "Nice-looking kiddy," he said calmly. "Just the age to take us all for his dad." "Yes," panted Ned, his moist hands gripping the arm of his chair. "How many's she got?" "Two, I believe." "Boys?" "Yes, both." The father took a cigar leisurely from his case, cut it and began to smoke. "I'd have liked a large family," he said quietly. The son raised his eyes of a hunted hare. "I know, father," he stuttered. "I'm afraid I've been a great dud--disappointment to you." "Stop it!" grunted the other. "Or I'll go into the kitchen." He puffed away, lost in his reflections. "It was your mother," he went on. "She couldn't stand the racket. That sort can't. The English aristocracy breed in and in too much. That's why they always fail. No red blood in em." He added, after a pause, "_You_ almost killed her; and you were only a five-pounder when you were born...." Before he left Mr. Caspar did go into the kitchen alone. "I'm going to give that woman half-a-sovereign," he explained. "She gave me a decent luncheon." He went down the passage and knocked at the kitchen-door. "Come in," said a voice. He entered. The woman faced him, formidable as a tigress guarding her cubs. Her enemy eyed her with something more than kindness. "I've seen one child," he said with the charm he could assume at will. "Where's tother?" His manner disarmed her. Half-hidden behind a towel-horse was a cot. Anne Caspar stood aside while the big man bent over the sleeping child. "Ern's all right," she said. "This'n's not much to talk on--as yet. I'd not have rared him only for Mr. Trupp." "Mr. Trupp's a great man," said the other, and laid two sovereigns on the table. "One for each of em," he explained. The woman coloured faintly. There was about her the beauty of a clear and frosty day. "Thank-you," she said. He held out his hand. She took it, and he would not let it go, those eyes of his, in which light and darkness, cruelty and kindness, chased each other, engaging hers. "Good-bye," he said. "I don't know what your name is--Look after _him_," He jerked his head towards the door. "He needs it." The woman dropped her eyes, the lovely colour deepening in her cheeks. "I'll try," she said, her natural surliness dashed with ungracious graciousness. In the passage he put on his coat.