is a very curious thing," said Mr. Direck, "that in England I find
myself more disposed to take stimulants and that I no longer have the
need for iced water that one feels at home. I ascribe it to a greater
humidity in the air. One is less dried and one is less braced. One is no
longer pursued by a thirst, but one needs something to buck one up a
little. Thank you. That is enough."

Mr. Direck took his glass of whisky and soda from Mr. Britling's hand.

Mr. Britling seated himself in an armchair by the fireplace and threw
one leg carelessly over the arm. In his black velvet cloak and cap, and
his black silk tights, he was very like a minor character, a court
chamberlain for example, in some cloak and rapier drama. "I find this
week-end dancing and kicking about wonderfully wholesome," he said.
"That and our Sunday hockey. One starts the new week clear and bright
about the mind. Friday is always my worst working day."

Mr. Direck leant against the table, wrapped in his golden pheasants, and
appreciated the point.

"Your young people dance very cheerfully," he said.

"We all dance very cheerfully," said Mr. Britling.

"Then this Miss Corner," said Mr. Direck, "she is the sister, I presume,
is she? of that pleasant young lady who is married--she is married,
isn't she?--to the young man you call Teddy."

"I should have explained these young people. They're the sort of young
people we are producing over here now in quite enormous quantity. They
are the sort of equivalent of the Russian Intelligentsia, an
irresponsible middle class with ideas. Teddy, you know, is my secretary.
He's the son, I believe, of a Kilburn solicitor. He was recommended to
me by Datcher of _The Times_. He came down here and lived in lodgings
for a time. Then suddenly appeared the young lady."

"Miss Corner's sister?"

"Exactly. The village was a little startled. The cottager who had let
the rooms came to me privately. Teddy is rather touchy on the point of
his personal independence, he considers any demand for explanations as
an insult, and probably all he had said to the old lady was, 'This is
Letty--come to share my rooms.' I put the matter to him very gently.
'Oh, yes,' he said, rather in the manner of some one who has overlooked
a trifle. 'I got married to her in the Christmas holidays. May I bring
her along to see Mrs. Britling?' We induced him to go into a little
cottage I rent. The wife was the daughter of a Colchester journalist and