“Of course, that is quite true.  One cannot prevent the papers from printing what they wish.  So they have published articles about James’ doings in English Society?”

“Doings,” said Mr. Pett, “is right!”

“Something has got to be done about it,” said Mrs. Pett.

Mr. Pett endorsed this.

“Nesta’s going to lose her health if these stories go on,” he said.

Mrs. Crocker raised her eyebrows, but she had hard work to keep a contented smile off her face.

“If you are not above petty jealousy, Nesta . . .”

Mrs. Pett laughed a sharp, metallic laugh.

“It is the disgrace I object to!”

“The disgrace!”

“What else would you call it, Eugenia?  Wouldn’t you be ashamed if you opened your Sunday paper and came upon a full page article about your nephew having got intoxicated at the races and fought a book-maker—­having broken up a political meeting—­having been sued for breach-of-promise by a barmaid . . .”

Mrs. Crocker preserved her well-bred calm, but she was shaken.  The episodes to which her sister had alluded were ancient history, horrors of the long-dead past, but it seemed that they still lived in print.  There and then she registered the resolve to talk to her step-son James when she got hold of him in such a manner as would scourge the offending Adam out of him for once and for all.

“And not only that,” continued Mrs. Pett.  “That would be bad enough in itself, but somehow the papers have discovered that I am the boy’s aunt.  Two weeks ago they printed my photograph with one of these articles.  I suppose they will always do it now.  That is why I have come to you.  It must stop.  And the only way it can be made to stop is by taking your step-son away from London where he is running wild.  Peter has most kindly consented to give the boy a position in his office.  It is very good of him, for the boy cannot in the nature of things be of any use for a very long time, but we have talked it over and it seems the only course.  I have come this morning to ask you to let us take James Crocker back to America with us and keep him out of mischief by giving him honest work.  What do you say?”

Mrs. Crocker raised her eyebrows.

“What do you expect me to say?  It is utterly preposterous.  I have never heard anything so supremely absurd in my life.”

“You refuse?”

“Of course I refuse.”

“I think you are extremely foolish.”

“Indeed!”

Mr. Pett cowed in his chair.  He was feeling rather like a nervous and peace-loving patron of a wild western saloon who observes two cowboys reach for their hip-pockets.  Neither his wife nor his sister-in-law paid any attention to him.  The concluding exercises of a duel of the eyes was in progress between them.  After some silent, age-long moments, Mrs. Crocker laughed a light laugh.

“Most extraordinary!” she murmured.