“Or the Derby dog, by Jove!” suggested the Colonel.

“I can sympathize with you fully, Miss Sylvester,” said his nephew.  “I shouldn’t like to say how many times in the course of my first summer term at Oxford I found myself sprawling ignominiously in the Cherwell, instead of posing in a picturesque attitude in the stern of my punt.  And one looked such a fool going up to college in wet things.  But there aren’t many regattas going on in the regions below London Bridge nowadays.  It’s not much like Henley or Marlow, though it’s pretty enough in its way at times.  You ought to get Rainham to invite you to the dock; you would create an impression on the natives, and of course he would be delighted.  He’s got a most amiable housekeeper, though I don’t think she has heard of thin bread-and-butter; and I have discovered that his foreman is a judge of art—­a regular Ruskin.”

“And how is poor Philip, Mr. Lightmark?” asked Mrs. Sylvester tentatively.  “You must bring him here very soon, and make him give an account of himself.”

“Oh,” said Lightmark vaguely, “he’s looking pretty fit, though he doesn’t like to be told so.  I really believe he would be unhappy if he were in robust health.  He finds his damaged lung such a good pretext for neglecting the dock; and if it got quite well, half the occupation of his life would be gone.”

Mrs. Sylvester and Eve both protested laughingly against this somewhat heartless view of the case; and after declining an offer of the back seats of the carriage, which was already waiting at the door to take Mrs. Sylvester and her daughter for their anteprandial drive in the Park, and expressing their regret that they had not seen Charles, uncle and nephew took their leave together.

“Dick, my boy,” said the colonel, when they were safely in the street, “you must come and dine with me.  Not tonight; I am going to take Lady Dulminster to the French play.  Let me have your address, or come and look me up at the club.  I’m dev’lish glad you’re getting on so well, my boy, though you were a fool not to stay up at Oxford and take your degree.  After all, though, perhaps you aren’t quite the cut for the Church or a fellowship, and—­and the Sylvesters are dev’lish good people to know, Dick.  Ta, ta!  Don’t forget to come and see me.”

So saying, Dick’s versatile uncle waved his cheroot by way of adieu, and clambered laboriously into a hansom.

“By Jove!” said the younger man blankly, “what a ridiculous old humbug it is!  And how he used to frighten me in the old days with his confounded cavalry bluster!  I rather think I will look him up:  and I’ll dine with him three times a week if he likes.  Meanwhile, it’s time for me to go and meet old Rainham, and take him round to Brodonowski’s.  What a ripping sunset!”

And he strolled light-heartedly through Grosvenor Square, the smoke of his cigarette fading away behind him.

CHAPTER IV