“Well, what do you want?” said the Captain, with a frown.  “No, it’s no good coming to the about that pup, sir—­I won’t have you keep it.”

“I came to study, sir,” said Pip mildly.  “I feel I’m a bit backward with my mathematics, so I won’t waste all the holidays, when I’m costing you so much in school fees.”

The Captain gave a little gasp and looked hard at Pip; but the boy’s face was so unsmiling and earnest that he was disarmed, and actually congratulated himself that his eldest son was at last seeing the error of his ways.

“There are those sets of problems in that drawer that I did when I was at school,” he said graciously.  “If they are of any use to you, you can get them out.”

“Thanks awfully—­they will be a great help,” said Pip gratefully.

He examined them with admiration plainly depicted upon his face.

“How very clearly and correctly you worked, Father,” he said with a sigh.  “I wonder if ever I’ll get as good as this!  How old were you, Father, when you did them?”

“About your age,” said the Captain, picking up the papers.

He examined them with his head on one side.  He was rather proud of them, seeing he had utterly forgotten now how to work decimal fractions, and could not have done a quadratic equation to save his life.

“Still, I don’t think you need be quite discouraged, Pip.  I was rather beyond the other boys in my class in these subjects, I remember.  We can’t all excel in the same thing, and I’m glad to see you are beginning to realize the importance of work.”

“Yes, Father.”

Meg had betaken herself to the drawing-room, and was sitting on the floor before the music canterbury with scissors, thimble, and a roll of narrow blue ribbon on her knee, and all her father’s songs, that he so often complained were falling to pieces, spread out before her.

He saw her once as he passed the door, and looked surprised and pleased.

“Thank you, Margaret:  they wanted it badly.  I am glad you can make yourself useful, after all,” he said.

“Yes, Father.”

Meg stitched on industriously.

He went batik to his study, where Pip’s head was at a studious, absorbed angle, and pyramids of books and sheaves of paper were on the table.  He wrote two more letters, and there came a little knock at the door.

“Come in,” he called; and there entered Nell.

She was carrying very carefully a little tray covered with a snow-white doyley, and on it were a glass of milk and a plate of mulberries.  She placed it before him.

“I thought perhaps you would like a little lunch, Father,” she said gently; and Pip was seized with a sudden coughing fit.

“My dear child!” he said.

He looked at it very thoughtfully.

“The last glass of milk I had, Nellie, was when I was Pip’s age, and was Barlow’s fag at Rugby.  It made me ill, and I have never touched it since.”