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not only respects you but he is attached
to you. You have an obligation to him. If you do not intervene, that
child will go straight to the devil."
    My life is one endless chain of
obligations , Benedict thought—and
immediately reproached himself for thinking it He was fond of
Peregrine, and he knew, better than anybody, how much damage Atherton
and his wife were doing.
    Benedict knew what Peregrine needed, what he responded
to. Logic. Calm. And simple rules.
    Benedict believed in all these things, especially rules.
    Without rules, life became incomprehensible. Without
rules, one's passions and whims prevailed, and life flew out of
control.
    He promised to intervene to the extent of finding a
drawing instructor and perhaps, in time, a tutor.
    When that was settled, Peregrine was summoned to rejoin
the family.
    The rest of the evening proceeded peaceably, apart from
Daphne's arguing with her father-in-law about the British Museum's
scandalous treatment of Signor Belzoni. No one intervened, though the
debate grew ferocious. Lady Hargate looked on amused, and Rupert
proudly watched his wife. Even Peregrine sat silent and fiercely
attentive, for Egypt was the one subject dear to his heart.
    In the carriage, on the way home, Benedict asked why the
boy hadn't sought his opinion of the scorned drawings.
    "I was afraid you would be tactful," said
Peregrine. "I knew Lord Hargate would tell me the plain truth.
He said I needed a drawing master."
    "I shall find one," Benedict said.
    "The red-haired girl's mother is a drawing master,"
Peregrine said.
    "Is she, indeed?"
    Temptation rose before Benedict. She smiled her siren
smile and crooked her finger.
    He had turned his back on Temptation before, countless
times. He could easily do it again, he told himself.

    THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, Lord Rathbourne stood gazing at
a card in the window of a print shop in Holborn, his countenance
expressionless, his heart beating hard and fast.
    Because of a piece of paper.
    But that was ridiculous. He had no reason to be
agitated.
    The paper merely bore her name—her initial at
least, and her late husband's surname. It was not even engraved but
handwritten. Most beautifully handwritten.

    Watercolor and drawing lessons by the hour.
    Experienced instructor, trained on the Continent.
    Sample work on display.
    For further particulars, enquire within.
    B. Wingate

    He looked down at Peregrine.
    "It's where the freckle-faced
girl said it would be," his nephew said. "One of her
mother's works is supposed to be in the window as well. She said I
might judge for myself whether her mother was skilled enough to teach
me. Not that I can judge, when I know nothing at all about drawing,
according to her !'
He frowned. "I did have a horrible suspicion even before she
told me, and I wasn't surprised when Lord Hargate said my drawing was execrable ."
    While the boy searched eagerly for Mrs. Wingate's work
among the assorted artistic atrocities in the print seller's window,
Benedict wished his father would mince words once in a while.
    Had he spoken a degree less damningly of Peregrine's
efforts, the boy would not be so desperate at present for a drawing
master. He was on fire to get started—there wasn't a moment to
lose—his bad habits would only get harder and harder to
break—and the lady took students—and she was sensible and
agreeable, was she not?
    Benedict should have simply said that Bathsheba Wingate
was out of the question.
    Instead, he'd given in. To curiosity.
    A foolish indulgence.
    True, Atherton did not involve himself overmuch in the
details of his son's education… or his life. He only wanted
the boy in a suitable school, and left effecting that miracle to his
secretary.
    At present, Atherton was with his wife at their place in
Scotland. He did not propose to return to London until the new year.
    He was not behaving very differently from the normal run
of aristocratic parent.
    The trouble was, Peregrine was not the normal run of
aristocratic