All this was exciting and entertaining. The attempt was unsuccessful. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. "It is your son. It was the day I borrowed a pencil; the day we first spoke to one another. “Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er— connected with the profession, under present circumstances. "Jack," said Mrs. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. It was very much like a real house, with one central stalagmite that looked like a column and a waterfall that served when she wanted to bathe.
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