“Had a bad day?”

“Much the same as usual.”

“Mrs. B. not too cordial?”

“Not very. And, unfortunately, the son and heir was cordiality itself.”

Mr. Braddock nodded.

“A bit of a trial, that lad.”

“A bit.”

“Wants kicking.”

“Very badly.”

Kay gave a little wriggle of distaste. Technically, her duties at Thurloe Square consisted of reading and writing Mrs. Winnington-Bates’ letters; but what she was engaged for principally, she sometimes thought, was to act as a sort of spiritual punching bag for her employer. To-day that lady had been exceptionally trying. Her son, on the other hand, who had recently returned to his home after an unsuccessful attempt to learn poultry farming in Sussex and was lounging about it, with little to occupy him, had shown himself, in his few moments of opportunity, more than usually gallant. What life needed to make it a trifle easier, Kay felt, was for Mrs. Bates to admire her a little more and for Claude Bates to admire her a little less.{31}

{31}

“I remember him at school,” said Mr. Braddock. “A worm.”

“Was he at school with you?”

“Yes. Younger than me. A beastly little kid who stuffed himself with food and frousted over fires and shirked games. I remember Sam Shotter licking him once for stealing jam sandwiches at the school shop. By the way, Sam’s coming over here. I had a letter from him.”

“Is he? And who is he? You’ve never mentioned his name before.”

“Haven’t I told you about old Sam Shotter?” asked Mr. Braddock, surprised.

“Never. But he sounds wonderfully attractive. Anyone who licked Claude Bates must have a lot of good in him.”

“He was at school with me.”

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