"So Willie doesn't count, doesn't he?"

"No. He was a fool. He never did anything. Nevill, what did father think
you'd done?"

"I really cannot say. Nothing to deserve you, I suppose."

"Rubbish! I know all that. But he said there was something, and he
wouldn't tell me what. Anyhow, you didn't do it, did you?"

"Probably not."

"Come, I think you might tell me when I've confessed all my little sins
to you." Mrs. Nevill Tyson was persistent, not because she in the least
wanted to know, but because nobody likes being beaten.

"I don't know what the dear old pater was driving at. I don't suppose he
knew himself. He was a scholar, not a man of the world. He could read any
Greek poet, I daresay, who was dead enough and dull enough; but when a
real live Englishman walked into his study, it seemed to put him out
somehow. He didn't like me, and he showed it. All the same, I think I
could have made him like me if he'd given me a chance. I don't suppose
he does me any injustice now."

"No. He knew an awful lot about those stupid old Greeks and Romans and
people, but I don't think he knew much about you. I expect he made it up
to frighten mother. That reminds me, what _do_ you think Miss Batchelor
says about you? She told mother that it was a pity you hadn't any
profession--every man ought to have a profession--keep you out of