his Uncle
Hughy. Winny, round-eyed with wonder, inquired if it was beautiful, and
was told that it was fairly beautiful, a tidy figure, a nice round
figure, like her Aunt Sophy's.

"That," said John, "was _very_ decent of her."

"Very," said the gentle lady, Mrs. John.

"It was splendid," said Mrs. Heron.

The Doctor meditated. "I wonder _why_ she did it," said the Doctor.

His brother-in-law explained. "Oh, she thought she'd let him in for
Tanqueray."

"Let him _in_?"

"Don't you see," said Mrs. Heron, "it was her idea of honour."

"A woman's idea of honour," said the Doctor.

"You needn't criticize it," said his sister Sophy.

"I don't," said the Doctor.

"I can tell you," said Levine, "what with her idea of honour and Hugh's
idea of honour, the office had a pretty rough time of it till they got
the business fixed."

"With Hugh's _ideas_," said John, "he's hardly likely to make this thing
pay, is he? Especially if he's going to bar politics."

He said it importantly. By a manner, by wearing spectacles, and brushing
his hair back in two semi-circles from his forehead, Mr. John Brodrick
contrived to appear considerably more important than he was.

"Ah, he's made a mistake there," said the Doctor.

"That's what _I_ tell him." Levine was more excited than ever.

"I should think he might be allowed to do what he likes," said Sophy.
"After all, it's _his_ magazine."

Mr. Levine's face remained supernaturally polite while it guarded his
opinion that it wasn't his brother-in-law's magazine at all. They had
disagreed about Tanqueray. They had disagreed about everything connected
with the magazine, from the make-up of the first number to the salary of
the sub-editor. They had almost quarreled about what Levine called "Miss
Holland's price." And now, when his wife said that it was Sunday--and if
they were going to talk business all the afternoon--she was told that
Hugh's magazine wasn't business. It was Hugh's game. (His dreadfully
expensive, possibly ruinous game.)

"Then," she said, "you might let him play it. I'm sure he works hard
enough on your horrid old 'Telegraph.'"

Sophy invariably stood up for her family against her husband. But she
would have stood up for her husband against all the world.

"Thank you, my pet." She stooped to the little three-year-old girl who
trotted to and fro, offering to each of these mysteriously, deplorably
preoccupied persons a flower without a stalk.

It was at this