At nineteen he was a limber, freckled youth with a wide mouth, light eyes, long dark lashes; a rather charming smile, considerable knowledge of what he should not know, and no experience of what he ought to do. Few boys had more narrowly escaped being expelled⁠—the engaging rascal. After kissing his mother and pinching Imogen, he ran upstairs three at a time, and came down four, dressed for dinner. He was awfully sorry, but his “trainer,” who had come up too, had asked him to dine at the Oxford and Cambridge; it wouldn’t do to miss⁠—the old chap would be hurt. Winifred let him go with an unhappy pride. She had wanted him at home, but it was very nice to know that his tutor was so fond of him. He went out with a wink at Imogen, saying: “I say, Mother, could I have two plover’s eggs when I come in?⁠—cook’s got some. They top up so jolly well. Oh! and look here⁠—have you any money?⁠—I had to borrow a fiver from old Snobby.”

Winifred, looking at him with fond shrewdness, answered: