out of a "David Copperfield." He had a big, sickly head, brown eyes like a spaniel, precociously intelligent, and a neck shockingly delicate in the back where it took the weight of the skull, legs like broom-handles, and hands of great length and character like a sculptor's. He had been emaciated and on the point of death since his birth. He looked up and smiled bravely at his mother—looked at the man she had brought, and smiled joyfully.
"Upon my word," said the child—he could not have been more than twelve—"if it isn't Mr. Beauling!"
"So it is," said Beauling. "And of all the odd places to find you, Jack! And how did you leave Lettice?"
"She's such a dear!" said Jack. "But isn't this delightful, mama?"
He struggled to his feet, pale and dizzy, and gave Beauling a firm handshake.
"What's the plan?"
"First, there's got to be a big talk," said Beauling. "And a general tabooing of all plans we don't like. But before
