familiars of his past—trees, fields and streams, towers, churches, bridges; the English breeds of beasts, the singing birds, the owls, the jays and rooks at Lippinghall, the little differences from foreign sorts in shrub, flower, lichen, and winged life; the English scents, the English haze, the English grass; the eggs and bacon; the slow good humour, the moderation and the pluck; the smell of rain; the apple-blossom, the heather, and the sea. His country, and his breed—unspoilable at heart! He passed the Clock Tower. The House looked lacy and imposing, more beautiful than fashion granted. Did they spin the web of England’s future in that House? Or were they painting camouflage—a screen, over old England?

A familiar voice said: “This is a monstrous great thing!”

And Michael saw his father-inlaw staring up at the Lincoln statue. “What did they want to put it here for?” said Soames. “It’s not English.” He walked along at Michael’s side. “Fleur well?”

“Splendid. Italy suited her like everything.”

Soames sniffed. “They’re a theatrical lot,” he said. “Did you see Milan cathedral!”

“Yes, sir. It’s about the only thing we didn’t take to.”

“H’m! Their cooking gave me the collywobbles in ‘79. I dare say it’s better now. How’s the boy?”

“A1, sir.”

Soames made a sound of gratification, and they turned the corner into South Square.

“What’s this?” said Soames.

Outside the front door were two battered-looking trunks, a young man, grasping a bag, and ringing the bell, and a taxicab turning away.

“I can’t tell you, sir,” murmured Michael. “Unless it’s the angel Gabriel.”

“He’s got the wrong house,” said Soames, moving forward.

But just then the young man disappeared within.

Soames walked up to the trunks. “Francis Wilmot,” he read out. “‘S. S. Amphibian.’ There’s some mistake!”

Chapter IV.

MERE CONVERSATION

When they came in, Fleur was returning down-stairs from showing the young man to his room. Already fully dressed for the evening, she had but little on, and her hair was shingled…