the jewel-case, trotted off beside the now pessimistic porter, who had started on this job under the impression that there was at least a bob’s-worth in it. The remark about the sixpence had jarred the porter’s faith in his species. 

 Derek approached, acutely conscious of Freddie, Ronny, and Algy, who were skirmishing about his flank. He had enough to worry him without them. He had listened with growing apprehension to the catalogue of his mother’s possessions. Plainly this was no flying visit. You do not pop over to London for a day or two with a steamer trunk, another trunk, a black box, a suit-case, and a small brown bag. Lady Underhill had evidently come prepared to stay; and the fact seemed to presage trouble. 

 “Well, mother! So there you are at last!” 

 “Well, Derek!” 

 Derek kissed his mother. Freddie, Ronny, and Algy shuffled closer, like leopards. Freddie, with the expression of one who leads a forlorn hope, moved his Adam’s apple briskly up and down several times, and spoke. 

 “How do you do, Lady Underhill?” 

 “How do you do, Mr Rooke?” 

 Lady Underhill bowed stiffly and without pleasure. She was not fond of the Last of the Rookes. She supposed the Almighty had had some wise purpose in creating Freddie, but it had always been inscrutable to her. 

 “Like you,” mumbled Freddie, “to meet my friends. Lady Underhill. Mr Devereux.” 

 “Charmed,” said Ronny affably. 

 “Mr Martyn.” 

 “Delighted,” said Algy with old-world courtesy. 

 Lady Underhill regarded this mob-scene with an eye of ice. 

 “How do you do?” she said. “Have you come to meet somebody?” 

 “I-er-we-er-why-er—” This woman always made Freddie feel as if he were being disembowelled by some clumsy amateur. He wished that he had defied the dictates of his better nature and remained in his snug rooms at the Albany, allowing Derek to go through this business by himself. “I-er-we-er-came to meet you, don’t you know!” 

 

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