Sissie entered the room, some letters in her hand.  She was exceedingly attractive, matron-like, interesting—­but formidable.

Said Mr. Prohack, glancing up at her: 

“It is the duty of the man to protect and the woman to charm—­and I don’t care who knows it.”

“What on earth do you mean, dad?”

“I mean that it is the duty of the man to protect and the woman to charm.”

Sissie flushed.

“Ozzie and I understand each other, but you don’t,” said she, and made a delicious rude face.  “Carthew’s brought these letters and he’s waiting for orders about the car.”  She departed.

Among the few letters was one from Softly Bishop, dated Rangoon.  It was full of the world-tour.  “We had a success at Calcutta that really does baffle description,” it said.

“‘We!’” commented Mr. Prohack.  There was a postscript:  “By the way, I’ve only just learnt that it was your son who was buying those Royal Rubber shares.  I do hope he was not inconvenienced.  I need not say that if I had had the slightest idea who was standing the racket I should have waived—­” And so on.

“Would you!” commented Mr. Prohack.  “I see you doing it.  And what’s more I bet you only wrote the letter for the sake of the postscript.  Your tour is not a striking success, and you’ll be wanting to do business with me when you come back, but you won’t do it....  And here I am lecturing Sissie about hardness!”

He rang the bell and told a servant who was a perfect stranger to him to tell Carthew that he should not want the car.

“May Carthew speak to you, sir?” said the servant returning.

“Carthew may,” said he, and the servant thought what an odd gentleman Mr. Prohack was.

“Well, Carthew,” said he, when the chauffeur, perturbed, entered the room.  “This is quite like old times, isn’t it?  Sit down and have a cigarette.  What’s wrong?”

“Well, sir,” replied Carthew, after he had lighted the cigarette and ejected a flake of tobacco into the hearth.  “There may be something wrong or there mayn’t, if you understand what I mean.  But I’m thinking of getting married.”

“Oh!  But what about that wife of yours?”

“Oh!  Her!  She’s dead, all right.  I never said anything, feeling as it might be ashamed of her.”

“But I thought you’d done with women!”

“So did I, sir.  But the question always is, Have women done with you?  I was helping her to lift pictures down yesterday, and she was standing on a chair.  And something came over me.  And there you are before you know where you are, sir, if you understand what I mean.”

“Perfectly, Carthew.  But who is it?”

“Machin, sir.  To cut a long story short, sir, I’d been thinking about her for the better part of some time, because of the boy, sir, because of the boy.  She likes him.  If it hadn’t been for the boy—­”

“Careful, Carthew!”