“Here you are,” she said, “just as I was beginning to get tired of having nothing to do. Lord! what a fuss we make about things before we face ’em. After all they ain’t nothing but bubbles. Blow them and they burst. Look here, Master Godfrey,” and she waved her hand about the sitting-room. “Pretty neat, ain’t it? Well, I thought it would be all of a hugger-mugger. But what did I find? That those tenants had been jewels and left everything like a new pin, to say nothing of improvements, such as an Eagle range. Moreover, the caretaker is a policeman’s wife and a very nice woman always ready to help for a trifle, and that man that brought in your boxes is a relative of hers who does gardening jobs and such-like. Now, come and see your rooms,” and she led him with pride into a capital back apartment with a large window, in fact an old Tudor one which the builder had produced somewhere, together with the panelling on the walls.

“That’s your study,” she said, “bookshelves and all complete. Now, follow me,” and she took him upstairs to a really charming bedroom.

“But,” said Godfrey, surveying these splendours, “this must be the best room in the house. Where do you sleep?”

“Oh! at the back there, my dear. You see, I am accustomed to a small chamber and shouldn’t be happy in this big one. Besides, you are going to pay me rent and must be accommodated. And now come down to your dinner.”

A very good dinner it was, cooked by the policeman’s wife, which Mrs. Parsons insisted on serving, as she would not sit at the table with him. In short, Godfrey found himself in clover, a circumstance that filled him with some sadness. Why, he wondered, should he always be made so miserable at home and so happy when he was away? Then he remembered that famous line about the man who throughout life ever found his warmest welcome at an inn, and perceived that it hid much philosophy. Frequently enough homes are not what fond fancy paints them, while in the bosom of strangers there is much kindliness.

CHAPTER XIII
THE INTERVENING YEARS

Now we may omit a great deal from Godfrey’s youthful career. Within a few days he received a letter from his father forwarded to him from the hotel, that was even more unpleasant than the majority of the paternal epistles to which he was accustomed. Mr. Knight, probably from honest conviction and a misreading of the facts of life, was one of those persons who are called Pacifists. Although he never carried out the doctrine in his own small affairs, he believed that nations were enjoined by divine decree to turn the other cheek and indeed every portion of their corporate frame to the smiter, and that by so doing, in some mysterious way, they would attain to profound peace and felicity. Consequently he hated armies, especially as these involved taxation, and loathed the trade of soldiering, which he considered one of licensed murder.

The decision of his son to adopt this career was therefore a bitter blow to him, concerning which he expressed his feelings in the plainest language, ending his epistle by intimating his strong conviction that Godfrey, having taken the sword, was destined to perish by the sword. Also he pointed out to him that he had turned his back upon God Who would certainly remember the affront, being, he remarked, “a jealous God,” and lastly that the less they saw of each other in future—here he was referring to himself, not to the Divinity as the context would seem to imply—the better it would be for both of them.

Further there was a postscript about the disgraceful conduct of the woman, Mrs. Parsons, who, after receiving the shelter of his house for many years, had made a scene and departed, leaving him in the lurch. His injunction was that under no circumstances should he, Godfrey, have anything more to do with this violent and treacherous female who had made him a pretext of quarrel, and, having learned that he had money, doubtless wished to get something out of him.

Godfrey did not answer this letter, nor did his father write to him again for quite a long while.