afraid I'm awfully late," said Harry cheerfully, clapping his
brother on the back and putting his hand for a minute on Robin's
shoulder; "things all cold?"

"Oh no," said Garrett, scarcely looking up from his morning paper.
"Damned good kidneys!"

Robin said nothing. He was watching his father curiously. It was one
of the Trojan rules that you never talked at breakfast; it was such an
impossible meal altogether, and one was always at one's worst at that
time of the morning. Robin wondered whether his father would recognise
this elementary rule or whether he would talk, talk, talk, as he had
done last night. They had had rather a bad time last night; Aunt Clare
had had a headache, but his father had talked continuously--about sheep
and Maories and the Pink Terraces. It had been just like a parish-room
magic-lantern lecture--"Some hours with our friends the Maories"--it
had been very tiring; poor Aunt Clare had grown whiter and whiter; it
was quite a relief when dinner had come to an end.

Harry helped himself to kidneys and sat down by Robin, still humming
the refrain of the Cornish song he had heard at his window. "By Jove,
I'm late--mustard, Robin, my boy--can't think how I slept like that.
Why, in New Zealand I was always up with the lark--had to be, you know,
there was always such heaps to do--the bread, old boy, if you can get
hold of it. I remember once getting up at three in the morning to go
and play cricket somewhere--fearful hot day it was, but I knocked up
fifty, I remember. Probably the bowling was awfully soft, although I
remember one chap--Pulling, friend of Durand's--could fairly twist 'em
down the pitch--made you damned well jump. Talking of cricket, I
suppose you play, Robin? Did you get your cap or whatever they call
it--College colours, you know?"

"Oh, cricket!" said Robin indifferently. "No, I didn't play. The
chaps at King's who ran the games were rather outers--pretty thoroughly
barred by the decent men. None of the 'Gracchi' went in for the
sports."

"Oh!" said Harry, considerably surprised. "And who the deuce are the
'Gracchi'?"

"A society I was on," said Robin, a little wearily--it was so annoying
to be forced to talk at breakfast. "A literary society--essays, with
especial attention paid to the New Literature. We made it our boast
that we never went back further than Meredith, except, of course, when
one had to, for origins and comparisons. Randal, who's coming to stop