“Things are worse and worse, Guardy.  I’m at my wits’ end to tide over this quarter.  You wouldn’t advance me a hundred on my new story?  I’m sure to get two for it in the end.”

The old man shook his head.

“I’ve done something for you and the children,” he said.  “You’ll get notice of it in a day or two; ask no questions.”

“Oh!  Guardy!  Oh! you dear!” And her gaze rested on Bob Pillin, leaning over the piano, where Phyllis again sat.

Old Heythorp snorted.  “What are you cultivating that young gaby for?  She mustn’t be grabbed up by any fool who comes along.”

Mrs. Larne murmured at once: 

“Of course, the dear gairl is much too young.  Phyllis, come and talk to Guardy!”

When the girl was installed beside him on the sofa, and he had felt that little thrill of warmth the proximity of youth can bring, he said: 

“Been a good girl?”

She shook her head.

“Can’t, when Jock’s not at school.  Mother can’t pay for him this term.”

Hearing his name, the boy Jock blew his ocarina till Mrs. Larne drove him from the room, and Phyllis went on: 

“He’s more awful than anything you can think of.  Was my dad at all like him, Guardy?  Mother’s always so mysterious about him.  I suppose you knew him well.”

Old Heythorp, incapable of confusion, answered stolidly: 

“Not very.”

“Who was his father?  I don’t believe even mother knows.”

“Man about town in my day.”

“Oh! your day must have been jolly.  Did you wear peg-top trousers, and dundreary’s?”

Old Heythorp nodded.

“What larks!  And I suppose you had lots of adventures with opera dancers and gambling.  The young men are all so good now.”  Her eyes rested on Bob Pillin.  “That young man’s a perfect stick of goodness.”

Old Heythorp grunted.

“You wouldn’t know how good he was,” Phyllis went on musingly, “unless you’d sat next him in a tunnel.  The other day he had his waist squeezed and he simply sat still and did nothing.  And then when the tunnel ended, it was Jock after all, not me.  His face was—­Oh! ah! ha! ha!  Ah! ha!” She threw back her head, displaying all her white, round throat.  Then edging near, she whispered: 

“He likes to pretend, of course, that he’s fearfully lively.  He’s promised to take mother and me to the theatre and supper afterwards.  Won’t it be scrummy!  Only, I haven’t anything to go in.”

Old Heythorp said:  “What do you want?  Irish poplin?”

Her mouth opened wide:  “Oh!  Guardy!  Soft white satin!”

“How many yards’ll go round you?”

“I should think about twelve.  We could make it ourselves.  You are a chook!”