to make up his mind whether he wanted to be a sane architect--he
despised questions of housemaids' closets and sanitation and lifts
and hot-water supply--or a scene painter. I think he might have had
a great career at Drury Lane over fairy palaces or millionaire
dwellings. But I turned him out of my studio, though I put the fact
less brutally before his father--said I should be absent a long
while in Italy and that I feared the boy was too undisciplined.
Afterwards I think he went into some South African police force..."

_Vivie_: "He did, and died last year in a South African hospital.
Had he--er--er--many relations, I mean did he come of well-known
people?"

_Praed_: "I fancy not. His father was just a dreamy old Welsh
clergyman always seeing visions and believing himself a descendant
of the Druids, Sam Gardner told me; and his mother had either died
long ago or had run away from her husband, I forget which. In a way,
I'm sorry David's dead. He had a sort of weird talent and wild good
looks. By the way, he wasn't altogether unlike _you_."

_Vivie_: "Thank you for the double-edged compliment. However what
you say is very interesting. Well now, my idea is that David
Vavasour Williams did _not_ die in a military hospital; he recovered
and returned, firmly resolved to lead a new life.--Is his father
living by the bye? Did he believe his son was dead?"

_Praed_: "Couldn't tell you, I'm sure. I never took any further
interest in him, and until you mentioned it--I don't know on whose
authority--I didn't know he was dead. On the whole a good riddance
for his people, I should say, especially if he died on the field of