"And Ned?"
"He's all right. Keep him in bed. I'll send him round some medicine to ease the pain."
She eyed him shrewdly.
"I didn't mean that. I meant the big thing. What chance has he?"
Mr. Trupp buttoned himself up.
"He's honest with himself. That's the great thing. For the rest it depends mostly on you. You may pull him up. He's young. Is he ambitious?"
She shook her head.
"What about his writing?"
"The Basis of Animalism," said Mrs. Caspar thoughtfully. "That's the essay that got him the Fellowship at King's—only he gave it up after a year. Too drudgeryfied. See where it is," confidentially, "he's got the brains, Ned has. The teachers at Cambridge thought no end of him. I've seen their letters. You can do what you like,—the Head Teacher wrote. Question is—Do you like? And that's where it is with him. There's no stay in Ned. He'll write away one day, and then drop it for a month. Then he'll paint a bit; and after that a bit of poetry. But he don't go at it. He don't understand work. That sort don't," with scorn. "They've no need. A man works when he's got to—and not before. Dad worked. He was a tobacconist at Ealing in a small way. Cleared three pound a week if he kept at it steady and went under if he didn't. Why should a man work when he's only got to open his mouth and the pocket-money'll drop in. 'Tain't in Nature."
Mr. Trupp nodded quiet approval.