'And yet there's something so fascinating about him. He's so unlike anybody else.'

'Bosh!' said Anne. 'He's exactly like thousands of other young men. But it just happens you've taken a fancy to him; that's the only thing that makes him different.'

'I hate him,' said Hyacinth. 'Do you dislike him, Anne?'

'Dislike him?' said Anne, turning out one of the lights. 'No, indeed! I loathe him!'

'But why?'

Anne went to the door.

'Because you're a fool about him,' she said somewhat cryptically.

Hyacinth felt somewhat soothed, and resolved to think no more of Cecil Reeve. She then turned up the light again, took her writing materials, and wrote him three long letters, each of which she tore up. She then wrote once more, saying--

'DEAR MR REEVE,

'I shall be at home today at four. Do come round and see me.'

She put it under her pillow, resolving to send it by a messenger the first thing in the morning, and went to sleep.

But this letter, like the others, was never sent. By the morning light she marvelled at having written it, and threw it into the fire.

CHAPTER XI

The Troubles of the Ottleys

'Bruce', said Edith, 'you won't forget we're dining with your people tonight?'

'It's a great nuisance.'

'Oh, Bruce!'

'It's such an infernally long way.'

'It's only to Kensington.'

'West Kensington. It's off the map. I'm not an explorer--I don't pretend to be.' He paused a moment, then went on, 'And it's not only the frightful distance and the expense of getting there, but when I do get there.... Do you consider that my people treat me with proper deference?'

'With proper _what?_' asked Edith.

'Deference. I admit I like deference. I need it--I require it; and at my people's--well, frankly, I don't get it.'

'If you need it,' said Edith, 'I hope you will get it. But remember they are your father and mother.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'Well, I mean they know you very well, of course ... and all that.'

'Do you imply...?'

'Oh, no, Bruce dear,' she answered hastily; 'of course I don't. But really I think your people are charming'

'To _you_ I know they are,' said he. 'It's all very well for you. They are awfully fond of _you_. You and my mother can talk about Archie and his nurse and housekeeping and fashions, and it's very jolly for you, but where's the fun for a man of the world?'

'Your father--' began Edith.

'My father!' Bruce took a turn round the room. 'I don't mind telling you, Edith, I don't consider my father a man of the world. Why, good heavens! when we are alone together, what do you suppose he talks about?

He complains! Finds fault, if you please! Says I don't work--makes out I'm extravagant! Have _you_ ever found me extravagant?'

'No, indeed. I'm sure you've never been extravagant--to _me_.'

'He's not on my level intellectually in any way. I doubt very much if he's capable of understanding me at all. Still, I suppose we might as well go and get it over. My people's dinners are a most awful bore to me.'

'How would you like it,' said Edith gently, 'if some day Archie were to call us my people, and talk about us as you do of yours?'

'Archie!' shouted Bruce. 'Good heavens! Archie!' Bruce held out his arm with a magnificent gesture. 'If Archie ever treats me with any want of proper deference, I shall cut him off with a shilling!'

'Do give me the shilling for him now,' said Edith laughing.

The elder Mrs Ottley was a sweet woman, with a resigned smile and a sense of humour. She had a great admiration for Edith, who was very fond of her. No-one else was there on this occasion. Bruce always complained equally, regarding it as a slight if they were asked alone, and a bore if it was a dinner party. The elder Mr Ottley was considerably older than his wife, and was a handsome, clean-shaven elderly man with a hooked nose and a dry manner. The conversation at dinner consisted of vague attempts on Bruce's part to talk airy generalities, which were always brought back by his father to personalities more or less unflattering to Bruce.

Edith and Mrs Ottley, fearing an explosion, which happened rather frequently when Bruce and his father were together, combined their united energy to ward it off.

'And what do you intend the boy to be when he grows up?' asked old Mr Ottley. 'Are you going to make him a useful member of society, or a Foreign Office clerk?'

'I intend my son,' said Bruce--'(a little port, please. Thanks.)--I intend my son to be a Man of the World.'

His father gave a slight snort.

'Be very careful,' said Mrs Ottley to Edith, 'not to let the darling catch cold in his perambulator this weather. Spring is so treacherous!'

'Does he seem to show any particular bent for anything? I suppose hardly--yet?'

'Well, he's very fond of soldiers,' said Edith.

'Ah!' said Mr Ottley approvingly; 'what we want for empire-building is conscription. Every fellow ought to be a soldier some time in his life.

It makes men of them '--he glanced round rather contemptuously--'it teaches them discipline.'

'I don't mean,' said Edith hastily, 'that he wants to _be_ a soldier.

But he likes playing with them. He takes them to bed with him. It is as much as I can do to keep him from eating them.'