"Yes, sir."

"Ring the bell there. You will need refreshment before you return to London."

I stood up again and tugged the rope on the left of the fireplace.

"Tell me," he added, without any change of tone, "is Mrs Reynolds dying?"

I felt tears prick my eyelids. I said, "She does not confide in me, but she grows weaker daily."

"I am sorry to hear it. She has a small annuity, I collect? You must not mind me if I am blunt. It is as well for us to be frank about such matters."

There is a thin line between frankness and brutality. I never knew on which side of the line Bransby stood. I heard a tap on the door.

"Enter!" cried Mr Bransby.

I turned, expecting a servant in answer to the bell. Instead a small, neat boy slipped into the room.

"Ah, Allan. Good morning."

"Good morning, sir."

He and Bransby shook hands.

"Make your bow to Mr Shield, Allan," Bransby told him. "You will be seeing more of him in the weeks to come."

Allan glanced at me and obeyed. He was a well-made child with large, bright eyes and a high forehead. In his hand was a letter.

"Are Mr and Mrs Allan quite well?" Bransby inquired.

"Yes, sir. My father asked me to present his compliments, and to give you this."

Bransby took the letter, glanced at the superscription and dropped it on the desk. "I trust you will apply yourself with extra force after this long holiday. Idleness does not become you."

"No, sir."

"Adde quod ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes." He prodded the boy in the chest. "Continue and construe."

"I regret, sir, I cannot."

Bransby boxed the lad's ears with casual efficiency. He turned to me. "Eh, Mr Shield? I need not ask you to construe, but perhaps you would be so good as to complete the sentence?"

"Emollit mores nee sinit esse feros. Add that to have studied the liberal arts with assiduity refines one's manners and does not allow them to be coarse."