“It is a great idea,” said the news editor, “there is a story in that house, Tab. Now, boy, see if for once in your young life you can turn in a really informative column! There is something gone wrong with your stuff lately, the night editors are complaining bitterly about the slush that finds its way into your literary efforts. You are not supposed to refer to the Secretary of State as ‘darling’, and it is not usual to speak of a judge as ‘beloved.’”
Tab went very red.
“Do I do that, Jacques?” he asked conscience-stricken.
“You do worse than that,” said Jacques. “Now—a good story about those pillars of Yeh Ling’s. Get a touch of the flaming east into your mundane exercises, will you?”
Tab promised faithfully that he would.
He had the unexpected pleasure of meeting Mr. Stott at the house-warming, and introducing that gentleman to Ursula. Mr. Stott had a particular interest in Yeh Ling’s fabric, for, as he explained some dozen times, he had put in the foundations.
“I owe you a very great deal, Mr. Stott,” said Ursula warmly. “Tab—Mr. Holland has told me how splendidly brave you were on the night of the fire.”
Mr. Stott coughed.
“There is some talk in town of presenting me with a piece of plate,” he said deprecatingly, “I have done my best to stop it. I hate a fuss about a trifle of that description. The curious thing is, all my family have disliked that kind of fuss. Our family has always hated publicity. My father, who was perhaps the best minister in the Baptist movement, might have gone into the church and become a bishop—in fact, they practically offered him a bishopric—he was just the same. I remember—”
Yeh Ling led them through the house, showing them his art treasures accumulated with some labour, and now seeing the light of day for the first time.