"'The bookshelves shall be repaired, sir,' was his final promise in
answer to a hint from my father, who (it being successful, and he
being a very straight-forward man) was ever afterwards ashamed of this
piece of diplomacy. 'And the fire-place must be seen to. Lord! Lord! A
man can live anywhere, but valuable books must be taken care of. Would
you believe it? I have a fire in this room three times a week in bad
weather. And fuel is terribly dear, terribly dear. And that slut in
the kitchen burns as much as if she had the care of the Vatican
Library. She said she couldn't roast the meat without. "Then give me
cold meat!" I said; but she roasts and boils all the same. So last
week I forbade the butcher the house, and we've lived on cheese ever
since, and _that's_ eightpence a pound. Food is terribly dear here,
sir; everything is dear. It's enough to ruin a man. And you've got a
family. Lord! Lord! How a man can keep a family and books together, I
can't imagine. However, I suppose children live chiefly on porridge.'

"Which supposition served for long as a household joke against my
brothers, whose appetite for roast meat was not less than that of
other healthy boys of the period.

"It was a happy moment when my father came back from this interview,
and Reka Dom was fairly ours. But a more delightful one was that in
which I told the successful result of my embassy to the nursery
conclave. I certainly had not the remotest claim to credit in the
matter, but I received an ovation proportionate to the good news I
brought. I told my story skilfully, and made the six gardens the
crowning point; at which climax my brother and sisters raised a shout
that so far exceeded the average of even nursery noises, that my
mother hurried to the spot, where our little sister Phil flung herself
into her arms, and almost sobbing with excitement, cried--