“Of course,” I said to myself, “It may be merely hunger.  I may be all right after breakfast.  But at present I seem to be working up for a really fine fit of the blues.  I feel bad.”

I whistled to Bob, and started for home.  On the beach I saw the professor some little distance away, and waved my towel in a friendly manner.  He made no reply.

Of course, it was possible that he had not seen me; but for some reason his attitude struck me as ominous.  As far as I could see, he was looking straight at me, and he was not a short-sighted man.  I could think of no reason why he should cut me.  We had met on the links on the previous morning, and he had been friendliness itself.  He had called me “me dear boy,” supplied me with a gin and gingerbeer at the clubhouse, and generally behaved as if he had been David and I Jonathan.  Yet in certain moods we are inclined to make mountains out of molehills, and I went on my way, puzzled and uneasy, with a distinct impression that I had received the cut direct.

I felt hurt.  What had I done that Providence should make things so unpleasant for me?  It would be a little hard, as Ukridge would have said, if, after all my trouble, the professor had discovered some fresh grievance against me.  Perhaps Ukridge had been irritating him again.  I wished he would not identify me so completely with Ukridge.  I could not be expected to control the man.  Then I reflected that they could hardly have met in the few hours between my parting from the professor at the club-house and my meeting with him on the beach.  Ukridge rarely left the farm.  When he was not working among the fowls, he was lying on his back in the paddock, resting his massive mind.

I came to the conclusion that after all the professor had not seen me.

“I’m an idiot, Bob,” I said, as we turned in at the farm gate, “and I let my imagination run away with me.”

Bob wagged his tail in approval of the sentiment.

Breakfast was ready when I got in.  There was a cold chicken on the sideboard, devilled chicken on the table, a trio of boiled eggs, and a dish of scrambled eggs.  As regarded quantity Mrs. Beale never failed us.

Ukridge was sorting the letters.

“Morning, Garny,” he said.  “One for you, Millie.”

“It’s from Aunt Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Ukridge, looking at the envelope.

I had only heard casual mention of this relative hitherto, but I had built up a mental picture of her partly from remarks which Ukridge had let fall, but principally from the fact that he had named the most malignant hen in our fowl-run after her.  A severe lady, I imagined with a cold eye.

“Wish she’d enclose a cheque,” said Ukridge.  “She could spare it.  You’ve no idea, Garny, old man, how disgustingly and indecently rich that woman is.  She lives in Kensington on an income which would do her well in Park Lane.  But as a touching proposition she had proved almost negligible.  She steadfastly refuses to part.”