in doors which he knew opened into the square separate rooms that
England favours. Bookshelves and stuffed birds comforted the landing
outside his bedroom. He descended to find the hall occupied by a small
bright bristling boy in white flannel shirt and knickerbockers and bare
legs and feet. He stood before the vacant open fireplace in an attitude
that Mr. Direck knew instantly was also Mr. Britling's. "Lunch is in the
garden," the Britling scion proclaimed, "and I've got to fetch you. And,
I say! is it true? Are you American?"

"Why surely," said Mr. Direck.

"Well, I know some American," said the boy. "I learnt it."

"Tell me some," said Mr. Direck, smiling still more amiably.

"Oh! Well--God darn you! Ouch, Gee-whizz! Soak him, Maud! It's up to
you, Duke...."

"Now where did you learn all that?" asked Mr. Direck recovering.

"Out of the Sunday Supplement," said the youthful Britling.

"Why! Then you know all about Buster Brown," said Mr. Direck. "He's
Fine--eh?"

The Britling child hated Buster Brown. He regarded Buster Brown as a
totally unnecessary infant. He detested the way he wore his hair and the
peculiar cut of his knickerbockers and--him. He thought Buster Brown the
one drop of paraffin in the otherwise delicious feast of the Sunday
Supplement. But he was a diplomatic child.