Several years elapsed.

Then one day little Horace was informed that his uncle Horace, whom he had never seen, was coming to the house on a visit, and that he must be a good boy, and polite to his uncle, and all the usual sort of thing.

And in effect Horace the elder did arrive in the afternoon.  He found no one to meet him at the station, or at the garden gate of the pleasaunce that had once been his, or even at the front door.  A pert parlour-maid told him that her master and mistress were upstairs in the nursery, and that he was requested to go up.  And he went up, and to be sure Sidney met him at the top of the stairs, banjo in hand, cigarette in mouth, smiling, easy and elegant as usual—­not a trace of physical weakness in his face or form.  And Horace was jocularly ushered into the nursery and introduced to his nephew.  Ella had changed.  She was no longer slim, and no longer gay and serious by turns.  She narrowly missed being stout, and she was continuously gay, like Sidney.  The child was also gay.  Everybody was glad to see Horace, but nobody seemed deeply interested in Horace’s affairs.  As a fact he had done rather well in Germany, and had now come back to England in order to assume a working partnership in a small potting concern at Hanbridge.  He was virtually beginning life afresh.  But what concerned Sidney and Ella was themselves and their offspring.  They talked incessantly about the infinitesimal details of their daily existence, and the alterations which they had made, or meant to make, in the house and garden.  And occasionally Sidney thrummed a tune on the banjo to amuse the infant.  Horace had expected them to be curious about Germany and his life in Germany.  But not a bit!  He might have come in from the next street and left them only yesterday, for all the curiosity they exhibited.

‘Shall we go down to the drawing-room and have tea, eh?’ said Ella.

‘Yes, let’s go and kill the fatted calf,’ said Sidney.

And strangely enough, inexplicably enough, Horace did feel like a prodigal.

Sidney went off with his precious banjo, and Ella picked up sundry belongings without which she never travelled about the house.

‘You carry me down-stairs, unky?’ the little nephew suggested, with an appealing glance at his new uncle.  ‘No,’ said Horace, ’I’m dashed if I do!’

BABY’S BATH

I

Mrs Blackshaw had a baby.  It would be an exaggeration to say that the baby interested the entire town, Bursley being an ancient, blase sort of borough of some thirty thousand inhabitants.  Babies, in fact, arrived in Bursley at the rate of more than a thousand every year.  Nevertheless, a few weeks after the advent of Mrs Blackshaw’s baby, when the medical officer of health reported to the Town Council that the births for the month amounted to ninety-five, and that the