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“Tony, you’ve made up your mind to stay with us after your leg is well, haven’t you?”

“Yes, thank you. I talked it over with the Professor. You’re—quite sure I won’t be in the way?”

“I’m quite sure I should be very much disappointed if you went away for a long, long while yet. Winthrop is ever so pleased with the way you do his copying, and I should be very grieved to lose my little brother. And then, Tony, I think you owe it to yourself to take every chance of education you can get. You’ve had so few advantages in that way so far, and as you know, Winthrop is never so happy as when he has someone to teach—I’ve been a great disappointment to him in that way! But he can cram things into you all he wants; indeed, I’ve often thought he must have been giving you too much to think about while you were ill.”

“Oh no, he never has. I’ve been awfully glad of it.”

“That’s quite settled then.”

It is doubtful, all the same, whether Tony would have accepted the Straines’ invitation to stay with them for six months at least if it had not been for a little windfall which he had just received, in the shape of £32, the wages owing to him for his last eighteen months at Paranui, less £7 he had spent on various small things during the first few months of his pay. There never had been much temptation to spend at Paranui. He had written to the post office at San Francisco, hoping that a letter from Robertson might be awaiting him there. There was one, enclosing the cheque which made him feel for the time being quite independent. A certain amount of money of one’s own is a wonderful thing; it means “backbone” and “spring” and “go,” and various other essentials.

“A quarter to three,” Alison announced as a neighbouring clock chimed. “It’s really time for me to go and dress for my tea-party.”