Sir Peter looked round cautiously. Save for the Eyesore, absorbed in his placid effort to catch fish, there was no sign of life in the Walk. Nobody was visible at the windows. From Number Three came the sound of a fresh young voice singing scales and arpeggios.
"Quite safe, Jack," said he.
"Peter, I want your help."
"Woman?" asked Sir Peter.
"Yes. Not my woman, though, this time. It's about my boy—Jack."
"Aha! Got into a mess? Chip of the old block—what?"
"No, no. Marriage."
"Gobblessmysoul! How old is he?"
"Twenty-five."
"Good Lord!"