say. To Sir Julian the appointment was, doubtless, one of some
importance; during the span of his Governorship the island might

possibly be visited by a member of the Royal Family, or at the
least by an earthquake, and in either case his name would get into

the papers. To the public the matter was one of absolute
indifference; "who is he and where is it?" would have correctly

epitomised the sum total of general information on the personal and
geographical aspects of the case.

Francesca, however, from the moment she had heard of the likelihood
of the appointment, had taken a deep and lively interest in Sir

Julian. As a Member of Parliament he had not filled any very
pressing social want in her life, and on the rare occasions when

she took tea on the Terrace of the House she was wont to lapse into
rapt contemplation of St. Thomas's Hospital whenever she saw him

within bowing distance. But as Governor of an island he would, of
course, want a private secretary, and as a friend and colleague of

Henry Greech, to whom he was indebted for many little acts of
political support (they had once jointly drafted an amendment which

had been ruled out of order), what was more natural and proper than
that he should let his choice fall on Henry's nephew Comus? While

privately doubting whether the boy would make the sort of secretary
that any public man would esteem as a treasure, Henry was

thoroughly in agreement with Francesca as to the excellence and
desirability of an arrangement which would transplant that

troublesome' young animal from the too restricted and conspicuous
area that centres in the parish of St. James's to some misty corner

of the British dominionoverseas. Brother and sister had conspired
to give an elaborate and at the same time cosy little luncheon to

Sir Julian on the very day that his appointment was officially
announced, and the question of the secretaryship had been mooted

and sedulously fostered as occasion permitted, until all that was
now needed to clinch the matter was a formalinterview between His

Excellency and Comus. The boy had from the first shewn very little
gratification at the prospect of his deportation. To live on a

remote shark-girt island, as he expressed it, with the Jull family
as his chief social mainstay, and Sir Julian's conversation as a

daily item of his existence, did not inspire him with the same
degree of enthusiasm as was displayed by his mother and uncle, who,

after all, were not making the experiment. Even the necessity for
an entirely new outfit did not appeal to his imagination with the

force that might have been expected. But, however lukewarm his
adhesion to the project might be, Francesca and her brother were

clearly determined that no lack of deft persistence on their part
should endanger its success. It was for the purpose of reminding

Sir Julian of his promise to meet Comus at lunch on the following
day, and definitely settle the matter of the secretaryship that

Francesca was now enduring the ordeal of a long harangue on the
value of the West Indian group as an Imperial asset. Other

listeners dexterously detached themselves one by one, but
Francesca's patience outlasted even Sir Julian's flow of

commonplaces, and her devotion was duly rewarded by a renewed
acknowledgment of the lunch engagement and its purpose. She pushed

her way back through the throng of starling-voiced chatterers
fortified by a sense of well-earned victory. Dear Serena's absurd

SALONS served some good purpose after all.
Francesca was not an early riser and her breakfast was only just

beginning to mobilise on the breakfast-table next morning when a
copy of THE TIMES, sent by special messenger from her brother's

house, was brought up to her room. A heavy margin of blue
pencilling drew her attention to a prominently-printed letter which

bore the ironical heading: "Julian Jull, Proconsul." The matter of
the letter was a cruel dis-interment of some fatuous and forgotten

speeches made by Sir Julian to his constituents not many years ago,
in which the value of some of our Colonial possessions,

particularly certain West Indian islands, was decried in a medley
of pomposity, ignorance and amazingly cheap humour. The extracts

given sounded weak and foolish enough, taken by themselves, but the
writer of the letter had interlarded them with comments of his own,

which sparkled with an ironical brilliance that was Cervantes-like
in its polished cruelty. Remembering her ordeal of the previous

evening Francesca permitted herself a certain feeling of amusement
as she read the merciless stabs inflicted on the newly-appointed

Governor; then she came to the signature at the foot of the letter,
and the laughter died out of her eyes. "Comus Bassington" stared

at her from above a thick layer of blue pencil lines marked by
Henry Greech's shaking hand.

Comus could no more have devised such a letter than he could have
written an Episcopal charge to the clergy of any given diocese. It

was obviously the work of Courtenay Youghal, and Comus, for a
palpable purpose of his own, had wheedled him into foregoing for

once the pride of authorship in a clever piece of political
raillery, and letting his young friend stand sponsor instead. It

was a daring stroke, and there could be no question as to its
success; the secretaryship and the distant shark-girt island faded

away into the horizon of impossible things. Francesca, forgetting
the golden rule of strategy which enjoins a careful choosing of

ground and opportunity before entering on hostilities, made
straight for the bathroom door, behind which a lively din of

splashing betokened that Comus had at least begun his toilet.
"You wicked boy, what have you done?" she cried, reproachfully.

"Me washee," came a cheerful shout; "me washee from the neck all
the way down to the merrythought, and now washee down from the

merrythought to - "
"You have ruined your future. THE TIMES has printed that miserable

letter with your signature."
A loud squeal of joy came from the bath. "Oh, Mummy! Let me see!"

There were sounds as of a sprawling dripping body clambering
hastily out of the bath. Francesca fled. One cannot effectively

scold a moist nineteen-year old boy clad only in a bath-towel and a
cloud of steam.

Another messenger arrived before Francesca's breakfast was over.
This one brought a letter from Sir Julian Jull, excusing himself

from fulfilment of the luncheonengagement.
CHAPTER IV

FRANCESCA prided herself on being able to see things from other
people's points of view, which meant, as it usually does, that she

could see her own point of view from various aspects. As regards
Comus, whose doings and non-doings bulked largely in her thoughts

at the present moment, she had mapped out in her mind so clearly
what his outlook in life ought to be, that she was peculiarly

unfitted to understand the drift of his feelings or the impulses
that governed them. Fate had endowed her with a son; in limiting

the endowment to a solitary offspring Fate had certainly shown a
moderation which Francesca was perfectlywilling to acknowledge and

be thankful for; but then, as she pointed out to a certain
complacent friend of hers who cheerfully sustained an endowment of

half-a-dozen male offsprings and a girl or two, her one child was
Comus. Moderation in numbers was more than counterbalanced in his

case by extravagance in characteristics.
Francesca mentally compared her son with hundreds of other young

men whom she saw around her, steadily, and no doubt happily,
engaged in the process of transforming themselves from nice boys

into useful citizens. Most of them had occupations, or were
industriously engaged in qualifying for such; in their leisure

moments they smoked reasonably-priced cigarettes, went to the
cheaper seats at music-halls, watched an occasionalcricket match

at Lord's with apparent interest, saw most of the world's
spectacular events through the medium of the cinematograph, and

were wont to exchange at partingseeminglysuperfluous injunctions
to "be good." The whole of Bond Street and many of the tributary

thoroughfares of Piccadilly might have been swept off the face of
modern London without in any way interfering with the supply of

their daily wants. They were doubtless dull as acquaintances, but
as sons they would have been eminently restful. With a growing

sense of irritation Francesca compared these deserving young men
with her own intractable offspring, and wondered why Fate should

have singled her out to be the parent of such a vexatious variant
from a comfortable and desirable type. As far as remunerative

achievement was concerned, Comus copied the insouciance of the
field lily with a dangerous fidelity. Like his mother he looked

round with wistfulirritation at the example afforded by
contemporary youth, but he concentrated his attention exclusively

on the richer circles of his acquaintance, young men who bought
cars and polo ponies as unconcernedly as he might purchase a

carnation for his buttonhole, and went for trips to Cairo or the