was finding Ginger's reserve a little trying, and wished that he had
been more inventive.

"Give them to me and I'll send them to her," suggested Ginger.

"Good Lord, man!" snapped Mr. Carmyle. "I'm capable of sending a few
books to America. Where does she live?"

Ginger revealed the sacred number of the holy street which had the luck
to be Sally's headquarters. He did it because with a persistent devil
like his cousin there seemed no way of getting out of it: but he did it
grudgingly.

"Thanks." Bruce Carmyle wrote the information down with a gold pencil in
a dapper little morocco-bound note-book. He was the sort of man who
always has a pencil, and the backs of old envelopes never enter into his
life.

There was a pause. Bruce Carmyle coughed.

"I saw Uncle Donald this morning," he said.

His manner had lost its geniality. There was no need for it now, and he
was a man who objected to waste. He spoke coldly, and in his voice there
was a familiar sub-tingle of reproof.

"Yes?" said Ginger moodily. This was the uncle in whose office he had
made his debut as a hasher: a worthy man, highly respected in the
National Liberal Club, but never a favourite of Ginger's. There were
other minor uncles and a few subsidiary aunts who went to make up the