Ambrose, he shook hands with Helen. 

 “Draughts,” he said, erecting the collar of his coat. 

 “You are still rheumatic?” asked Helen. Her voice was low and seductive, though she spoke absently enough, the sight of town and river being still present to her mind. 

 “Once rheumatic, always rheumatic, I fear,” he replied. “To some extent it depends on the weather, though not so much as people are apt to think.” 

 “One does not die of it, at any rate,” said Helen. 

 “As a general rule—no,” said Mr. Pepper. 

 “Soup, Uncle Ridley?” asked Rachel. 

 “Thank you, dear,” he said, and, as he held his plate out, sighed audibly, “Ah! she’s not like her mother.” Helen was just too late in thumping her tumbler on the table to prevent Rachel from hearing, and from blushing scarlet with embarrassment. 

 “The way servants treat flowers!” she said hastily. She drew a green vase with a crinkled lip towards her, and began pulling out the tight little chrysanthemums, which she laid on the table-cloth, arranging them fastidiously side by side. 

 There was a pause. 

 “You knew Jenkinson, didn’t you, Ambrose?” asked Mr. Pepper across the table. 

 “Jenkinson of Peterhouse?” 

 “He’s dead,” said Mr. Pepper. 

 “Ah, dear!—I knew him—ages ago,” said Ridley. “He was the hero of the punt accident, you remember? A queer card. Married a young woman out of a tobacconist’s, and lived in the Fens—never heard what became of him.” 

 “Drink—drugs,” said Mr. Pepper with sinister conciseness. “He left a commentary. Hopeless muddle, I’m told.” 

 “The man had really great abilities,” said Ridley. 

 “His introduction to Jellaby holds its own still,” went on Mr. Pepper, “which is surprising, seeing how text-books change.” 

 

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