conscientious people, it is true, pretended to think that the
Reverend Harold Benham was a first husband and long since dead, but
that was all. As a matter of fact, in his increasingly futile way
he wasn't, either at Seagate or in the Educational Supplement of the
TIMES. But even the most conscientious of us are not obliged to go
to Seagate or read the Educational Supplement of the TIMES.

Lady Marayne's plans for her son's future varied very pleasantly.
She was an industrious reader of biographies, and more particularly
of the large fair biographies of the recently contemporary; they
mentioned people she knew, they recalled scenes, each sowed its
imaginative crop upon her mind, a crop that flourished and flowered
until a newer growth came to oust it. She saw her son a diplomat, a
prancing pro-consul, an empire builder, a trusted friend of the
august, the bold leader of new movements, the saviour of ancient
institutions, the youngest, brightest, modernest of prime ministers--
or a tremendously popular poet. As a rule she saw him unmarried--
with a wonderful little mother at his elbow. Sometimes in romantic
flashes he was adored by German princesses or eloped with Russian
grand-duchesses! But such fancies were HORS D'OEUVRE. The modern
biography deals with the career. Every project was bright, every
project had GO--tremendous go. And they all demanded a hero,
debonnaire and balanced. And Benham, as she began to perceive,
wasn't balanced. Something of his father had crept into him, a
touch of moral stiffness. She knew the flavour of that so well. It
was a stumbling, an elaboration, a spoil-sport and weakness. She
tried not to admit to herself that even in the faintest degree it
was there. But it was there.

"Tell me all that you are doing NOW," she said to him one afternoon