What I wanted to ask was this--it's
really very simple--_If Mr. Vavasour Williams, aged twenty-four,
late in South Africa, once your pupil in architecture_ or scene
painting or whatever it was--_gives you as a reference to character,
you are to say the best you can of him_. And, by the bye, he will be
calling to see you very shortly and you could lend further
verisimilitude to your story by renewing acquaintance with him. You
will find him very much improved. In every way he will do you
credit. And what is more, if you don't repel him, he will come and
see you much oftener than his cousin--I'm not ashamed to adopt her
as a cousin--Vivie Warren could have done. Because Vivie, with her
deplorable parentage, had your good name to think of, and visited
you very seldom; whereas there could be raised _no_ objection from
your parlour-maid if Mr. D.V. Williams came rather often to chat
with you and ask your advice. Think it over, dear friend--Good-bye."
Early in July, Norie and Vivie were standing at the open west
window in their partners' room at the office, trying to get a little
fresh air. The staff had just gone its several ways to the suburbs,
glad to have three hours of daylight before it for cricket and
tennis. Confident therefore of not being overheard, Vivie began:
"I've got those rooms in Fig Tree Court. I shall soon be ready to
move my things in.
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