arly a week ago."

"A week ago! Then what the deuce have you been doing with yourself? Why
haven't I seen you?"

"I've been down at Bingley-on-the-Sea."

"Bingley! What on earth were you doing at that God-forsaken place?"

"Wrestling with myself," said Sam with simple dignity.

Sir Mallaby's agile mind had leaped back to the letter which he was
answering.

"We should be glad to meet you.... Wrestling, eh? Well, I like a boy to
be fond of manly sports. Still, life isn't all athletics. Don't forget
that. Life is real! Life is ... how does it go, Miss Milliken?"

Miss Milliken folded her hands and shut her eyes, her invariable habit
when called upon to recite.

"Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; dust
thou art to dust returnest, was not spoken of the soul. Art is long and
time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still like
muffled drums are beating, Funeral marches to the grave. Lives of great
men all remind us we can make our lives sublime, and, departing, leave
behind us footsteps on the sands of Time. Let us then ..." said Miss
Milliken respectfully, ... "be up and doing...."

"All right, all right, all right!" said Sir Mallaby. "I don't want it
all. Life is real! Life is earnest, Sam. I want to speak to you about
that when I've finished answering these letters. Where was I? 'We should
be glad to meet you at any time, if you will make an appointment....'
Bingley-on-the-Sea! Good heavens! Why Bingley-on-the-Sea? Why not
Margate while you were about it?"

"Margate is too bracing. I did not wish to be braced. Bingley suited my
mood. It was grey and dark and it rained all the time, and the sea slunk
about in the distance like some baffled beast...."

He stopped, becoming aware that his father was not listening. Sir
Mallaby's attention had returned to the letter.

"Oh, what's the good of answering the dashed thing at all?" said Sir
Mallaby. "Brigney, Goole and Butterworth know perfectly well that
they've got us in a cleft stick. Butterworth knows it better than Goole,
and Brigney knows it better than Butterworth. This young fool, Eggshaw,
Sam, admits that he wrote the girl twenty-three letters, twelve of them
in verse, and twenty-one specifically asking her to marry him, and he
comes to me and expects me to get him out of it. The girl is suing him
for ten thousand."

"How like a woman!"

Miss Milliken bridled reproachfully at this slur on her sex. Sir Mallaby
took