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performance with no hint of danger or accident about it. Laura was a careful child.

      ‘Why on earth should I?’ demanded Mr Franklin. ‘Dogs, in my opinion, are a nuisance, always coming in with muddy paws, and ruining the carpets.’

      ‘A dog,’ said Mr Baldock, in his lecture-room style, which was capable of rousing almost anybody to violent irritation, ‘has an extraordinary power of bolstering up the human ego. To a dog, the human being who owns him is a god to be worshipped, and not only worshipped but, in our present decadent state of civilization, also loved.

      ‘The possession of a dog goes to most people’s heads. It makes them feel important and powerful.’

      ‘Humph,’ said Mr Franklin, ‘and would you call that a good thing?’

      ‘Almost certainly not,’ said Mr Baldock. ‘But I have the inveterate weakness of liking to see human beings happy. I’d like to see Laura happy.’

      ‘Laura’s perfectly happy,’ said Laura’s father. ‘And anyway she’s got a kitten,’ he added.

      ‘Pah,’ said Mr Baldock. ‘It’s not at all the same thing. As you’d realize if you troubled to think. But that’s what is wrong with you. You never think. Look at your argument just now about economic conditions at the time of the Reformation. Do you suppose for one moment—’

      And they were back at it, hammer and tongs, enjoying themselves a great deal, with Mr Baldock making the most preposterous and provocative statements.

      Yet a vague disquiet lingered somewhere in Arthur Franklin’s mind, and that evening, as he came into his wife’s room where she was changing for dinner, he said abruptly:

      ‘Laura’s quite all right, isn’t she? Well and happy and all that?’

      His wife turned astonished blue eyes on him, lovely dark cornflower-blue eyes, like the eyes of her son Charles.

      ‘Darling!’ she said. ‘Of course! Laura’s always all right. She never even seems to have bilious attacks like most children. I never have to worry about Laura. She’s satisfactory in every way. Such a blessing.’

      A moment later, as she fastened the clasp of her pearls round her neck, she asked suddenly: ‘Why? Why did you ask about Laura this evening?’

      Arthur Franklin said vaguely:

      ‘Oh, just Baldy—something he said.’

      ‘Oh, Baldy!’ Mrs Franklin’s voice held amusement. ‘You know what he’s like. He likes starting things.’

      And on an occasion a few days later when Mr Baldock had been to lunch, and they came out of the dining-room, encountering Nannie in the hall, Angela Franklin stopped her deliberately and asked in a clear, slightly raised voice:

      ‘There’s nothing wrong with Miss Laura, is there? She’s quite well and happy?’

      ‘Oh yes, madam.’ Nannie was positive and slightly affronted. ‘She’s a very good little girl, never gives any trouble. Not like Master Charles.’

      ‘So Charles does give you trouble, does he?’ said Mr Baldock.

      Nannie turned to him deferentially.

      ‘He’s a regular boy, sir, always up to pranks! He’s getting on, you know. He’ll soon be going to school. Always high-spirited at this age, they are. And then his digestion is weak, he gets hold of too many sweets without my knowing.’

      An indulgent smile on her lips and shaking her head, she passed on.

      ‘All the same, she adores him,’ said Angela Franklin as they went into the drawing-room.

      ‘Obviously,’ said Mr Baldock. He added reflectively: ‘I always have thought women were fools.’

      ‘Nannie isn’t a fool—very far from it.’

      ‘I wasn’t thinking of Nannie.’

      ‘Me?’ Angela gave him a sharp, but not too sharp, glance, because after all it was Baldy, who was celebrated and eccentric and was allowed a certain licence in rudeness, which was, actually, one of his stock affectations.

      ‘I’m thinking of writing a book on the problem of the second child,’ said Mr Baldock.

      ‘Really, Baldy! You don’t advocate the only child, do you? I thought that was supposed to be unsound from every point of view.’

      ‘Oh! I can see a lot of point in the family of ten. That is, if it was allowed to develop in the legitimate way. Do the household chores, older ones look after the younger ones, and so on. All cogs in the household machine. Mind you, they’d have to be really of some use—not just made to think they were. But nowadays, like fools, we split ’em up and segregate ’em off, each with their own “age group”! Call it education! Pah! Flat against nature!’

      ‘You and your theories,’ said Angela indulgently. ‘But what about the second child?’

      ‘The trouble about the second child,’ said Mr Baldock didactically, ‘is that it’s usually an anti-climax. The first child’s an adventure. It’s frightening and it’s painful; the woman’s sure she’s going to die, and the husband (Arthur here, for example) is equally sure you’re going to die. After it’s all over, there you are with a small morsel of animate flesh yelling its head off, which has caused two people all kinds of hell to produce! Naturally they value it accordingly! It’s new, it’s ours, it’s wonderful! And then, usually rather too soon, Number Two comes along—all the caboodle over again—not so frightening this time, much more boring. And there it is, it’s yours, but it’s not a new experience, and since it hasn’t cost you so much, it isn’t nearly so wonderful.’

      Angela shrugged her shoulders.

      ‘Bachelors know everything,’ she murmured ironically. ‘And isn’t that equally true of Number Three and Number Four and all the rest of them?’

      ‘Not quite. I’ve noticed that there’s usually a gap before Number Three. Number Three is often produced because the other two are getting independent, and it would be “nice to have a baby in the nursery again”. Curious taste; revolting little creatures, but biologically a sound instinct, I suppose. And so they go on, some nice and some nasty, and some bright and some dull, but they pair off and pal up more or less, and finally comes the afterthought which like the firstborn gets an undue share of attention.’

      ‘And it’s all very unfair, is that what you’re saying?’

      ‘Exactly. That’s the whole point about life, it is unfair!’

      ‘And what can one do about it?’

      ‘Nothing.’

      ‘Then really, Baldy, I don’t see what you’re talking about.’

      ‘I told Arthur the other day. I’m a soft-hearted chap. I like to see people being happy. I like to make up to people a bit for what they haven’t got and can’t have. It evens things up a bit. Besides, if you don’t—’ he paused a moment—‘it can be dangerous …’

      ‘I do think Baldy talks a lot of nonsense,’ said Angela pensively to her husband when their guest had departed.

      ‘John Baldock is one of the foremost scholars in this country,’ said Arthur Franklin with a slight twinkle.

      ‘Oh, I know that.’ Angela was faintly scornful. ‘I’d be willing to sit in meek adoration if he was laying down the law on Greeks and Romans, or obscure Elizabethan poets. But what can he know about children?’

      ‘Absolutely nothing, I should imagine,’ said her husband. ‘By the way, he suggested the other day that we should give Laura a dog.’

      ‘A dog? But she’s got a kitten.’

      ‘According to him, that’s not the same thing.’

      ‘How

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