The little intimate talk was over; but enough had been said before father and son took their leave, to make Godfrey treasure every one of her beautiful words and repeat them over and over again. Especially her last words, spoken in a low voice for him alone: “I don’t want to lose track of you. One so often does in London. If ever you’re at a loose end, come and report progress. Ring me up beforehand.” She gave him her number. Victoria 9857. A Golden Number. The figures had a magical significance. It was not long before he ventured to obey her, and rang up the Golden Number. He spent with her an enchanted hour, the precursor of many hours which Lady Edna stole from her manifold activities in order to devote them to the young man’s further enchantment. * * * * * In the meanwhile Quong Ho arrived at Godalming. Quong Ho delighted with himself, in his ready-made suit and soft felt hat, in spite of the loss of his pigtail, which the treatment of his cracked skull had necessitated. Baltazar, too, cast an eye of approbation on his European appearance, regarding him somewhat as a creation of his own. His pride, however, was dashed by Godfrey, who on being asked, eagerly, after the first interview, what he thought of Quong Ho, cried: “For Heaven’s sake, sir, get the poor devil a new kit!” “Why—Why?” asked Baltazar, in his impatient way, “what’s the matter with his clothes?” “They fit like a flag at the end of a pole in a dead calm,” said Godfrey. “Or like sails round a mast. You’d have to get a pack of hounds in order to find his arms and legs. And that red and purple tie! It’s awful. Ask Marcelle.” Baltazar had walked Quong Ho over to Churton Towers, and after they had said good-bye at the gates, he had rushed back to put his question, leaving Quong Ho in the road. Marcelle smiled at his disconcerted face. “It would be scarcely well received at Cambridge.” “Give the chap a chance, sir,” said Godfrey. “I want to give him every chance,” exclaimed Baltazar. “I want to overwhelm him with chances. If his clothes won’t do, get him some others.” At his summons the Chinaman came up. Baltazar caught him by his loose sleeve. “Godfrey doesn’t approve of garments not made to the precise measurements of the individual human figure. He’ll take you to his tailor and hosier and hatter and rig you out properly. He knows what’s right and I don’t. When can you do it? The sooner the better.” “I’ll see what my engagements are,” said Godfrey stiffly. “That’s right,” cried Baltazar. “Telephone me this evening. His time’s yours. Get him all he wants. Brushes, combs, shirts, pyjamas, boots. You know.” He wrung his hand, waved his hat to Marcelle and marched off with Quong Ho. Godfrey regarded the retreating figures speechless. Then he turned to Marcelle. “Of all the cool cheek! Without by your leave or with your leave! I’m to cart this infernal Chinee about Bond Street. My God! My tailor will have a fit.”