“I could give the boy a job in my office,” he suggested.

Giving young men jobs in his office was what Mr. Pett liked doing best.  There were six brilliant youths living in his house and bursting with his food at that very moment whom he would have been delighted to start addressing envelopes down-town.

Notably his wife’s nephew, Willie Partridge, whom he looked on as a specious loafer.  He had a stubborn disbelief in the explosive that was to revolutionise war.  He knew, as all the world did, that Willie’s late father had been a great inventor, but he did not accept the fact that Willie had inherited the dead man’s genius.  He regarded the experiments on Partridgite, as it was to be called, with the profoundest scepticism, and considered that the only thing Willie had ever invented or was likely to invent was a series of ingenious schemes for living in fatted idleness on other people’s money.

“Exactly,” said Mrs. Pett, delighted at the suggestion.  “The very thing.”

“Will you write and suggest it?” said Mr. Pett, basking in the sunshine of unwonted commendation.

“What would be the use of writing?  Eugenia would pay no attention.  Besides, I could not say all I wished to in a letter.  No, the only thing is to go over to England and see her.  I shall speak very plainly to her.  I shall point out what an advantage it will be to the boy to be in your office and to live here. . . .”

Ann started.

“You don’t mean live here—­in this house?”

“Of course.  There would be no sense in bringing the boy all the way over from England if he was to be allowed to run loose when he got here.”

Mr. Pett coughed deprecatingly.

“I don’t think that would be very pleasant for Ann, dear.”

“Why in the name of goodness should Ann object?”

Ann moved towards the door.

“Thank you for thinking of it, uncle Peter.  You’re always a dear.  But don’t worry about me.  Do just as you want to.  In any case I’m quite certain that you won’t be able to get him to come over here.  You can see by the paper he’s having far too good a time in London.  You can call Jimmy Crockers from the vasty deep, but will they come when you call for them?”

Mrs. Pett looked at the door as it closed behind her, then at her husband.

“What do you mean, Peter, about Ann?  Why wouldn’t it be pleasant for her if this Crocker boy came to live with us?”

Mr. Pett hesitated.

“Well, it’s like this, Nesta.  I hope you won’t tell her I told you.  She’s sensitive about it, poor girl.  It all happened before you and I were married.  Ann was much younger then.  You know what schoolgirls are, kind of foolish and sentimental.  It was my fault really, I ought to have . . .”

“Good Heavens, Peter!  What are you trying to tell me?”

“She was only a child.”

Mrs. Pett rose in slow horror.