"I must see about his clothes," she said to Imogen; "I can't have him
going up to Oxford all anyhow. Those boys are so particular."
"Val's got heaps of things," Imogen answered.
"I know; but they want overhauling. I hope he'll come."
"He'll come like a shot, Mother. But he'll probably skew his Exam."
"I can't help that," said Winifred. "I want him."
With an innocent shrewd look at her mother's face, Imogen kept silence.
It was father, of course! Val did come 'like a shot' at six o'clock.
Imagine a cross between a pickle and a Forsyte and you have young
Publius Valerius Dartie. A youth so named could hardly turn out
otherwise. When he was born, Winifred, in the heyday of spirits, and the
craving for distinction, had determined that her children should
have names such as no others had ever had. (It was a mercy--she felt
now--that she had just not named Imogen Thisbe.) But it was to George
Forsyte, always a wag, that Val's christening was due. It so happened
that Dartie, dining with him a week after the birth of his son and heir,
had mentioned this aspiration of Winifred's.
"Call him Cato," said George, "it'll be damned piquant!" He had just won
a tenner on a horse of that name.
"Cato!" Dartie had replied--they were a little 'on' as the phrase was
even in those days--"it's not a Christian name."
"Halo you!" George called to a waiter in knee breeches. "Bring me the
Encyc'pedia Brit. from the Library, letter C."
The waiter brought it.
"Here you are!" said George, pointing with his cigar: "Cato Publius
Valerius by Virgil out of Lydia. That's what you want. Publius Valerius
is Christian enough."
Dartie, on arriving home, had informed Winifred. She had been charmed.
It was so 'chic.' And Publius Valerius became the baby's name, though
it afterwards transpired that they had got hold of the inferior Cato. In
1890, however, when little Publius was nearly ten, the word 'chic' went
out of fashion, and sobriety came in; Winifred began to have doubts.
They were confirmed by little Publius himself who returned from his
first term at school complaining that life was a burden to him--they
called him Pubby. Winifred--a woman of real decision--promptly changed
his school and his name to Val, the Publius being dropped even as an
initial.
At nineteen he was a limber, freckled youth with a wide mouth, light
eyes, long dark lashes; a rather charming smile, considerable knowledge
of what he should not know, and no experience of what he ought to do.
Few boys had more narrowly escaped being expelled--the engaging rascal.
After kissing his mother and pinching Imogen, he ran upstairs three at a
time, and came down four, dressed for dinner. He was awfully sorry, but
his 'trainer,' who had come up too, had asked him to dine at the Oxford
and Cambridge; it wouldn't do to miss--the old chap would be hurt.
Winifred let him go with an unhappy pride. She had wanted him at home,
but it was very nice to know that his tutor was so fond of him. He went
out with a wink at Imogen, saying: "I say, Mother, could I have two
plover's eggs when I come in?--cook's got some. They top up so jolly
well. Oh! and look here--have you any money?--I had to borrow a fiver
from old Snobby."