“I can’t imagine my ward, Miss Perry, attempting anything in the nature of a rattle,” said Cheriton.
“Can’t you?” grunted George, sourly.
CHAPTER XVIII
FASHION COMES TO THE ACACIAS
JIM LASCELLES was inclined to view his morning as a very great success. It is true that it had cost him the last half-sovereign he had in the world, but he felt that it had been invested to full advantage. He had derived a new store of inspiration from that memorable morning. For a whole week he was sustained by the recollection of it. He gave up his days to joyous labor in the wooden erection in the Balham back garden.
“I shall make something of her after all,” said he.
One morning when he came down to breakfast he found a letter at the side of his plate. This, in itself, was an event sufficiently rare, because Jim Lascelles was one of those people who never write a letter if they can possibly avoid doing so. The envelope had rather an air about it. Upon the back of it was a monogram of a distinguished club.
“What ho!” said Jim.
A pair of eyes by no means ill found in worldly wisdom had duly noted that which was on the back of the letter.
“The correspondent of dukes,” said their owner. “Which of them is it, my son?”
Jim threw the contents of the envelope across the table with a gay laugh.