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impressed,” the Archdeacon said mildly.
    â€œYes,” Mornington admitted. “He was certainly a perfect fool, in one meaning or other of the words.” He got up to go, and added: “Then I shall see you in the City before you go back to … Castra Parvulorum, was it? What a jolly name!”
    â€œUnfortunately it isn’t generally called that,” the Archdeacon said. “It’s called in directories and so on, and by the inhabitants, Fardles. By Grimm’s Law.”
    â€œGrimm’s Law?” Mornington asked, astonished. “Wasn’t he the man who wrote the fairy tales for the parvuli ? But why did he make a law about it? And why did anyone take any notice?”
    â€œI understand it was something to do with Indo-European sounds,” the Archdeacon answered. “The Castra was dropped, and in parvulorum the p became f and the v became d. And Grimm discovered what had happened. But I try and keep the old name as well as I can. It’s not far from London. They say Caesar gave it the name because his soldiers caught a lot of British children there, and he sent them back to their own people.”
    â€œThen I don’t see why Grimm should have interfered,” Mornington said, shaking hands. “Fardles … it sounds like an essay by Maurice Hewlett. Castra Parvulorum … it sounds like … it sounds like Rome. Well, good night, sir. Good night, Vicar. No, don’t come to the door.”
    III
    Actually at the moment when Mornington was speaking of him the elder Mr. Persimmons was sitting in a comfortable chair in an Ealing flat, listening to his son’s account of the afternoon’s adventure. He was a large man, and he lay back watching Stephen with amused eyes, as the younger man grew more and more agitated over the incredible facts.
    â€œI’m so afraid it’ll be bad for business,” he ended abruptly.
    The other sighed a little and looked at the fire. “Business,” he said. “Oh, I shouldn’t worry about business. If they want your books, they’ll buy your books.” He paused a little, and added: “I called in to see you to-day, but you were out.”
    â€œDid you?” his son said. “They didn’t tell me.”
    â€œJust as well,” Mr. Persimmons answered, “because you needn’t know now. You won’t be called at the inquest. Only, if anybody ever asks you, say you’ll ask me and find out. I tell you because I want to know what you are doing and saying.”
    Stephen was looking out of the window, and a minute went by before he spoke. Then he said absently, “What did you want? Anything important?”
    â€œI wanted to talk about the balance sheet,” his father answered. “There are a few points I don’t quite understand. And I still incline to think the proportion of novels is too high. It fritters money away, merely using it to produce more novels of the same kind. I want a definite proportion established between that and the other kind of book. You could quite well have produced my Intensive Mastery instead of that appalling balderdash about Flossie. Stephen, are you listening?”
    â€œYes,” Stephen said half-angrily.
    â€œI don’t believe you mean to produce my book,” his father went on equably. “Did you read it?”
    â€œYes,” Stephen said again, and came back into the room. “I don’t know about it. I told you I didn’t quite like it—I don’t think other people would. Of course, I know there’s a great demand for that sort of psycho-analytic book, but I didn’t feel at all sure——” He stopped doubtfully.
    â€œIf you ever felt quite sure, Stephen,” the older man said, “I should lose a great deal of pleasure. What was it you didn’t feel quite sure about this time?”
    â€œWell, all the examples—and the stories,” Stephen answered vaguely.