Earwaker spent Christmas with his relatives at Kingsmill.  His father and mother both lived; the latter very infirm, unable to leave the house; the former a man of seventy, twisted with rheumatism, his face rugged as a countenance picked out by fancy on the trunk of a big old oak, his hands scarred and deformed with labour.  Their old age was restful.  The son who had made himself a ‘gentleman’, and who in London sat at the tables of the high-born, the wealthy, the famous, saw to it that they lacked no comfort.

A bright, dry morning invited the old man and the young to go forth together.  They walked from the suburb countrywards, and their conversation was of the time when a struggle was being made to bear the expense of those three years at Whitelaw—­no bad investment, as it proved.  The father spoke with a strong Midland accent, using words of dialect by no means disagreeable to the son’s ear—­for dialect is a very different thing from the bestial jargon which on the lips of the London vulgar passes for English.  They were laughing over some half grim reminiscence, when Earwaker became aware of two people who were approaching along the pavement, they also in merry talk.  One of them he knew; it was Christian Moxey.

Too much interested in his companion to gaze about him, Christian came quite near before his eyes fell on Earwaker.  Then he started with a pleasant surprise, changed instantly to something like embarrassment when he observed the aged man.  Earwaker was willing to smile and go by, had the other consented; but a better impulse prevailed in both.  They stopped and struck hands together.

‘My father,’ said the man of letters, quite at his ease.

Christian was equal to the occasion; he shook hands heartily with the battered toiler, then turned to the lady at his side.

’Janet, you guess who this is.—­My cousin, Earwaker, Miss Janet Moxey.’

Doubtless Janet was aware that her praises had suffered no diminution when sung by Christian to his friends.  Her eyes just fell, but in a moment were ready with their frank, intelligent smile.  Earwaker experienced a pang—­ever so slight—­suggesting a revision of his philosophy.

They talked genially, and parted with good wishes for the New Year.

Two days later, on reaching home, Earwaker found in his letter-box a scrap of paper on which were scribbled a few barely legible lines.  ‘Here I am!’ he at length deciphered.  ’Got into Tilbury at eleven this morning.  Where the devil are you?  Write to Charing Cross Hotel.’  No signature, but none was needed.  Malkin’s return from New Zealand had been signalled in advance.

That evening the erratic gentleman burst in like a whirlwind.  He was the picture of health, though as far as ever from enduing the comfortable flesh which accompanies robustness in men of calmer temperament.  After violent greetings, he sat down with abrupt gravity, and began to talk as if in continuance of a dialogue just interrupted.