When Sir Lawrence Mont reached Burton’s Club the following afternoon he was feeling, in common with many who undertake to interfere in the affairs of others, an uneasy self-importance coupled with a desire to be somewhere else. He did not know what the deuce he was going to say to Corven, or why the deuce he should say it, since, in his opinion, by far the best solution would be for Clare to give her marriage another trial. Having discovered from the porter that Sir Gerald was in the Club, he poked his nose gingerly into three rooms before locating the back of his quarry seated in the corner of an apartment too small to be devoted to anything but writing. He sat down at a table close to the door, so that he could simulate surprise when Corven came up to leave the room. The fellow was an unconscionable time. Noting a copy of the British Statesman’s vade-mecum beside him, he began idly looking up the figures of British imports. He found potatoes: consumption sixty-six million five hundred thousand tons, production eight million eight hundred and seventy-four thousand tons! Somebody the other day had written to say that we imported forty million pounds’ worth of bacon every year. Taking a sheet of paper he wrote: “Prohibition and protection, in regard to food that we CAN produce here. Annual Imports: Pigs, ￡40,000,000; Poultry say, ￡12,000,000; Potatoes — God knows how much! All this bacon, all these eggs, and half these potatoes could be produced here. Why not a five-year plan? By prohibition lessen the import of bacon and eggs one-fifth every year, and the import of potatoes by one-tenth every year, increasing home production gradually to replace them. At the end of five years our bacon and eggs and half our potatoes would be all-British. We should save eighty millions on our Imports Bill and our trade would practically be balanced.”

Taking another sheet of paper, he wrote:

“To the Editor of The Times.

“The Three P. Plan.

“SIR—

“A simple plan for the balancing of our trade would seem to merit the attention of all those not wedded to the longest way round. There are three articles of food on importing which we expend annually some ——— pounds, but which could be produced in our own country without, I venture to think, causing the price of living to rise to any material extent if we took the simple precaution of hanging a profiteer at the beginning. These articles are Pigs, Poultry, Potatoes. There would be no need to put on duties, for all that is required is —”

But at this moment, becoming aware that Corven was passing from the room, he said:

“Hallo!”

Corven turned and came towards him.

Hoping that he showed as little sign of embarrassment as his nephew twice removed by marriage, Sir Lawrence rose.

“Sorry I didn’t see you when you called the other day. Have you got long leave?”

“Another week only, and then I shall have to fly the Mediterranean probably.”

“Not a good month for flying. What do you think of this adverse balance of trade?”

Jerry Corven shrugged.

“Something to keep them busy for a bit. They never see two inches before their noses.”

“‘Tiens! Une montagne!’ Remember the Caran d’Ache cartoon of Buller in front of Ladysmith? No, you wouldn’t. It’s thirty-two years ago. National character doesn’t change much, does it? How’s Ceylon? Not in love with India, I hope?”

“Nor with us particularly, but we jog on.”

“The climate doesn’t suit Clare, apparently.”

Corven’s expression remained watchful and slightly smiling.

“The hot weather didn’t, but that’s over.”

“Are you taking her back with you?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder if that’s wise.”

“To leave her would be less so. One’s either married or not.”

Sir Lawrence, watching his eyes, thought: ‘Shan’t go further. It’s hopeless. Besides, he’s probably right. Only I would bet —’

“Forgive me,” said Corven, “I must get these letters off.” He turned and moved away, trim and assured.

‘H’m!’ thought Sir Lawrence, ‘not exactly what you’d call fruitful.’ And he sat down again to his letter to The Times.

“I must get precise figures,” he muttered. “I’ll turn Michael on to it” . . . And his thoughts went back to Corven. Impossible, in such cases, to know where the blame really lay. After all, a misfit was a misfit, no amount of pious endeavour, or even worldly wisdom, would cure it. ‘I ought to have been a judge,’ he thought, ‘then I could have expressed my views. Mr. Justice Mont in the course of his judgment said: “It is time to warn the people of this country against marriage. That tie, which was all very well under Victoria, should now only be contracted in cases where there is full evidence to show that neither party has any individuality to speak of” . . . I think I’ll go home to Em.’ He blotted the perfectly dry letter to The Times, put it into his pocket, and sought the darkening, placidity of Pall Mall. He had stopped to look in at the window of his wine merchant’s in St. James’s Street, and consider once more where the extra ten per cent on his surtax was to come from, when a voice said:

“Good evening, Sir Lawrence!” It was the young man called Croom.

They crossed the street together.

“I wanted to thank you, sir, for speaking to Mr. Muskham. I’ve seen him today.”

“How did you find him?”

“Oh! very affable. Of course I agree it IS a bee in his bonnet about introducing that cross of Arab blood into our racehorses.”

“Did you show him you thought so?”

Young Croom smiled: “Hardly! But the Arab horse is so much smaller.”

“There’s something in it, all the same. Jack’s only wrong in expecting quick results. It’s like politics, people won’t lay down for the future. If a thing doesn’t work within five years, we think it’s no good. Did Jack say he’d take you on?”

“He’ll give me a trial. I’m to go down for a week, so that he can see me with horses. But the mares are not going to Royston. He’s got a place for them above Oxford near Bablock Hythe. I should be there if I pass muster. It’s not till the spring, though.”

“Jack’s a formalist,” said Sir Lawrence, as they entered the Coffee House; “you’ll have to mind your p’s and q’s.”

Young Croom smiled.

“You bet. Everything’s simply perfect at his stud farm. Luckily I really am frightfully keen about horses. I didn’t feel at sea with Mr. Muskham. It’s an immense relief to have a chance again; and there’s nothing I’d like better.”

Sir Lawrence smiled — enthusiasm was always pleasant.

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