LADY KELLYNCH was in the room she usually chose for sitting in for any length of time, when her son, Clifford (twelve years old), was at home for the holidays.

A widow, handsome and excessively dignified, as I have mentioned, with her prim notions, she was essentially like the old-fashioned idea of an old maid. As her fine house was very perfectly and meticulously furnished, she treated the presence of Clifford as an outrage in any room but this particularly practical and saddle-bag old apartment, where there was still a corner with a little low chair in it, and boxes full of toys and other things, which were not only far outgrown by Clifford, but which were absolutely never seen nowadays at all, and would be considered far behindhand as amusements for a child of four.

This extra, additional child, born eighteen years after his brother, and just before the death of his father, was still looked upon by Lady Kellynch as a curious mixture of an unexpected blessing, an unnecessary nuisance, and a pleasant surprise. She was always delighted to see him when he first came home from school, but he was very soon allowed to go and stay with Bertha and Percy. Bertha adored him and delighted in him in reality; Lady Kellynch worshipped him in theory, but though she hardly knew it herself, his presence absolutely interfered with all her plans about nothing, spoilt her little arrangements for order, and jarred on the clockwork regularity of her life, especially in her moments of sentiment.

He was a very good-looking boy, with smooth black hair and regular features like his brother, Percy. Perhaps because he was, according to his mother’s view, very much advanced for his age, he regarded her rather as a backward child, to whom it would be highly desirable, but unfortunately practically impossible, to explain life as it is now lived.

Lady Kellynch was doing a peculiar little piece of bead embroidery. She did it every day for ten minutes after lunch with a look at Clifford every now and then, occasionally counting her beads, as if she was not altogether quite sure whether or not he ate them when she wasn’t looking. This was the moment that she always chose to have conversation with him, so as to learn to know his character. A couple of suitable books, “The Jungle Book,” and “Eric, or Little by Little,” were placed on a low table by Clifford’s side; but, as a matter of fact, he was reading The English Review.

“Clifford darling!”

He put the magazine down, shoving a newspaper over it.

“Well, mother?”

“Tell me something about your life at school, darling.”

He glanced at the ceiling, then looked down for inspiration.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, haven’t you any nice little friends at school, Clifford—any favourites?”

He smiled.

“Oh, good Lord, mother, of course I haven’t! People don’t have little friends. I don’t know what you mean.”

She looked rather pained.

“No friends! Oh, dear, dear, dear! But are there no nice boys that you like?”

“No. Most of them are awful rotters.”

She put down her beads.

“Clifford! I’m shocked to hear this. Rotters! I suppose that’s one of your school expressions—you mean no nice boys? Poor little fellow! I shall make a note of that.”

He looked up, rather frightened.

“What on earth for?”

“Why, I shall certainly speak to your master about it. Oh! to think that you haven’t got a single friend in the school! All bad boys! There must be something wrong somewhere!”

“Oh, mummy, for goodness sake don’t speak to anybody about it. If you say a word, I tell you, I sha’n’t go back to school. I never heard of such a thing! I didn’t say they were all bad boys—rot! No. Some of them aren’t so bad.”

“Well, tell me about one—if it’s only one, Clifford.”

He thought a moment.

“I’m afraid you’ll go writing to the master, as you call it, and get me expelled for telling tales, or something.”

“Oh, my darling, of course I won’t! Poor boy! tell me about this one.”

“There’s one chap who’s fairly decent, a chap called Pickering.”

“To think,” she murmured to herself, stroking her transformation, and shaking her head, “to think there should be only one boy fairly decent in all that enormous school!”“Oh, well! he’s simply frightfully decent, as a matter of fact. Pickering fairly takes it. He’s top-hole. There’s nothing he can’t do.”

“What does he do, darling?”

“Oh, I can’t exactly explain. He’s a bit of all right. It’s frightfully smart to be seen with him.”

Lady Kellynch looked surprised at this remark.

“Clifford—really! I’d no idea you had these social views. Of course you’re quite right, dear. I’ve always been in favour of your being friends with little gentlemen. But I shouldn’t like you to be at all—what is called a snob. So long as he is a little gentleman, of course, that’s everything.”

Clifford laughed.

“I never said Pickering was a gentleman! big or little! You don’t understand, mother. I mean it’s smart to be seen with him because—oh! I can’t explain. He’s all right.”

His mother thought for a little while, then, having heard that it is right to encourage school friendships at home, so as to know under what influence your boy got, she said:

“Would you like, dear, to have this young Master Pickering to tea here one day?”

He looked up, and round the room.

“Oh no, mother; I shouldn’t care for him to come here.”“Why not, dear?”

“Oh, I can’t explain exactly; it isn’t the sort of place for him.”

Lady Kellynch was positively frightened to ask why, for fear her boy should show contempt for his own home, so she didn’t go into the matter, but remarked:

“I should think a beautiful house in Onslow Square, with a garden like this, was just the thing for a boy to like.”

He shook his head with a humorous expression of contempt.

“Pickering wouldn’t go into a Square garden, mother!”

She waited a moment, wondering what shaped garden was suited to him, what form of pleasaunce was worthy of the presence of this exceptional boy, and then said, trying to ascertain the point of view:

“Would you take him to see Percy?”

He brightened up directly.

“Percy! Oh yes, rather. I’d like him to see Bertha. I shall ask her to let me take him one day.”

Lady Kellynch felt vaguely pained, and envious and jealous, but on reflection realised to herself that probably the wonderful Pickering would be a very great nuisance, and make a noise, and create general untidiness and confusion, in which Bertha was quite capable of taking part; so she said:

“Do so, if you like, dear. You’re going to see Bertha soon, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I’m going to see her to-day.” He quickly put The English Review under the cushion, sitting on it as he saw his mother look up from her work.

“Bertha’s all right; she’s pretty too.”

“She’s very good and kind to you, I must say,” said Lady Kellynch. “As they have asked you so often, I think I should like you to pay her a nice little attention to-day, dear. Take her a pretty basket of flowers.”

Clifford’s handsome dark face became overclouded with boredom.

“Oh, good Lord, mother! can’t you telephone to a florist and have it sent to her, if she’s got to have vegetables?”

“But surely, dear, it would be nicer for you to take it.”

“Oh, mother, it would be awful rot, carting about floral tribs in a taxi all over London.”

“Floral tribs? What are floral tribs? Oh, tributes! I see! In a taxi! No. I never dreamt of your doing such a thing. Ridiculous extravagance! Go from Kensington to Sloane Street in a taxi!”

“How did you suppose I’d take it, then?”“I supposed you’d walk,” said Lady Kellynch, in a frightened voice.

“Walk! Great Scott! Walk with a basket of flowers! What next! I didn’t know you were bringing me up as a messenger-boy. No, mother, I’m too old to be a boy scout, or anything of that sort. What have you got Warden for? Why don’t you send the footman? But far the most sensible way is to ring up the place itself, and give the order.”

“No, dear,” said Lady Kellynch, rather crushed. She had pictured his entrance with some beautiful flowers to please his sister-in-law. “Never mind; it doesn’t matter.”

“Mind you,” said the spoilt boy, standing up, and looking at himself in the glass. “Mind you I should be awfully glad to give Bertha anything she likes. I don’t mind. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll call in at that place in Bond Street, and get her some chocolates.”

“Charbonnel and Walker’s, I suppose you mean,” said his mother.

He smiled.

“They’ll do. Pickering says his brother, who’s an artist, is going to do a historical picture for next year’s Academy on the subject of ‘The First Meeting between Charbonnel and Walker.’”

She looked bewildered.“Just as you like, my dear. Take her some bonbons if you prefer it. Wait! One moment, Clifford. Bertha hates sweets. She never touches them.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he answered. “I do.”