was rather
good (I.d.t.)*. Mr. Tonks said if I go up so fast I shall brake the
ceialing. Bad spelling I know but still. Last Wendesday a boy named
Jenkinson swalowed a button-hook but recovered it practically as good
as when bought (or perhaps a Xmas present). He was always called
Bolter for a nickname, so it was jolly convene. For once he did the
right thing. Mostly he is an utter ass. How is the polligamous pirate
getting on with wives &c.? That comes from a Greek word polis,
a city, so I suppose in the country they are too conventual. I like
him awfully. He's my sort (not Father's though). Well, the term is
waring away. Five days crost off on new diery. Where shall we go this
time three months? Easter I mean. Wycross I hope, but suppose dreery
Brighton, hope not. I must swot now Kings of Isereel and such-like so
goodby now or so long as we say here--LANCELOT."

She thought that she must show the letter to Urquhart when next she
saw him, and meantime, of course, showed it to James. The eyeglass
grew abhorrent over the spelling. "This boy passes belief. Look at
this, Lucy. C-e-i-a-ling!" "Oh, don't you see?" she cried. "He had it
perfectly: c-e-i. Well, and then a devil of doubt came in, and he
tried an _a_. Oh, I can see it now, on his blotting-pad! Whichever he
decided on, he must have forgotten to cross out the other. You
shouldn't be so hard on your own son. His first letter too."

James felt compunction. "No, no, I won't be hard. It's all right, of
course." He read on. The polligamous pirate with wives &c. had to be
explained. She told him the story. The eyeglass became a searchlight
exploring her.

"Did Urquhart tell that tale? Upon my soul--!"

"It was sheer nonsense, of course, but--"

"Oh, I don't know," said James. "You can't tell with a man of that
sort. He can be a March hare if he's in the mood. He'd as soon shoot a
Turk as a monkey, or keep two women as half a dozen. By the by, Lucy,"
and the eyeglass went out like a falling star, "don't let that
sentimental idiot make too much of an ass of himself."

Lucy's eyes concentrated; they shone. "Who is your sentimental idiot?
I haven't the least notion what you mean."

"I mean Francis Lingen, of course. You must admit-- Oh," and he nipped
her indignation in the bud, "I know you won't misunderstand me. I am
not at all a fool. You are kindness itself, generosity itself. But
there it is. He's an ass, and there's really nothing more to say."

Lucy was mol