ion. To say that he looked like a girl would be
disparaging to the fair sex, but his face would at once have impressed
a careful observer as being that of a very poor specimen of British
boyhood.

"Hallo!" he said, without removing his hands from his pockets, "so
you've turned up at last! You've been a beastly long time coming!"

He shook hands languidly with Valentine and the two girls, but greeted
Jack with a cool stare, which the latter returned with interest.
Grenford Manor was very different from Brenlands. Aunt Isabel was
fussy and querulous, while Mr. Fosberton was a very ponderous gentlemen
in more senses than one. He had bushy grey whiskers and a very red
face, which showed up in strong contrast to a broad expanse of white
waistcoat, which was in turn adorned with a massive gold chain and
imposing bunch of seals.

"Well, young ladies, and how are you?" he began in a deep, sonorous
voice, of which he was evidently rather proud. "How are you,
Valentine? So this is Basil's son?--hum! What's your father doing
now?"

"I don't know," answered Jack, glancing at the clock. "I expect he's
having his dinner, though there's no telling, for we're always a bit
late at home."

Mr. Fosberton stared at the boy, cleared his throat rather vigorously,
and then turned to speak to Helen.

Lunch was a very dry and formal affair. Raymond spoke to nobody, his
father and mother addressed a few words to Valentine and the girls, but
Jack was completely ignored. The latter, instead of noticing this
neglect, pegged away merrily at salmon and cold fowl, and seemed
devoutly thankful that no one interrupted his labours by forcing him to
join in the conversation.

"You may tell your father," said Mr. Fosberton to Valentine, "that I
find his family are related to one of the minor branches of my own;
I've no doubt he will be pleased to hear it. His father's sister
married a Pitsbury, a second cousin of the husband of one of the
Fosbertons of Cranklen. You'll remember, won't you?"

Valentine said he would, and looked scared.

The silver spoons and forks were all ornamented with the Fosberton
crest--a curious animal, apparently dancing on a sugar-stick.

"What is it?" whispered Barbara to Jack.

"The sea-cook's dog," answered her cousin.

"But what's he doing?"

"He's stolen the plum-duff, and the skipper's sent him up to ride on a
boom, and he's got to stay there till he's told to come down."

At last the weary meal