Harry sat listening with a careful, polite expression of attentiveness on his charming face. The expression hardly changed during the hour’s discussion; Mr Marriot had a fleeting and despairing impression that Harry was taking in very little that was being said, and Mr Marriot was quite right.

Harry was wondering how soon he could get away from Uncle Preston and meet Edward at the Golfing Green Club, and thinking that perhaps the old Deedle would not be quite so cut off from girls after all, even if he did go into Graby & Bryant’s, because even in old Marriot’s ghastly office, he had managed to catch the eye of two quite pretty typists or something; and he was also wondering when he might ask Mr Marriot to advance him some money on the three thousand pounds? He had three pounds, thirteen and sixpence at the moment, but that would not last long.

Despite Harry’s wool gathering, Uncle Preston and Mr Marriot managed to settle one or two of the more important problems during the hour. It was now the third week in January; the auction at the Surgery was fixed for the seventh of February and it was agreed that Uncle Preston should approach Mr Graby about an opening in the firm for his nephew.

They all agreed that, if Francis did not wish to matriculate, there was no point in his doing so, though Mr Marriot pointed out that he would have a slightly better chance of getting a post in a good firm if he did so.

‘By then he’ll be eighteen. Getting on,’ said Harry, who shared with his brother and sister a feeling that they were all three pretty old.

‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Marriot, austerely. ‘One must take the long view in these matters.’

But Harry and the absent Francis had their way about Matric.

As for the practice, that vague, but so-important entity, that fluctuating source of income, it was decided that a non- residential locum should be installed. Dr Casey, who had occasionally helped Dr Garden when the pressure of work was overwhelming because of an influenza epidemic or some other cause, would do very well.

He lived on Greenride Hill, some ten minutes’ walk from the Surgery, he knew the work and the patients knew him. He was already installed there, keeping things going, because most fortunately he happened to have been doing a fortnight’s work with Dr Garden at the time of the latter’s death, and Uncle Preston had asked him to stay on until affairs were more settled.

‘The patients don’t like him,’ observed Harry. ‘He’s a boring old beast.’

‘He has been extremely useful to us all,’ reproved Uncle Preston. ‘Without him, the situation would have been very awkward indeed; yes.’

‘Well, they don’t like him, anyway. They used to tell Father so. They liked Father much better. I bet you they won’t come to see old Casey nearly as often as they did Father. You see.’

‘That remark opens a rather disturbing possibility,’ said Mr Marriot, glancing at the clock and wishing that his tea and biscuits would come in; he felt in need of comfort. ‘The value of the practice – of any practice – is, of course, a fluctuating one. It depends upon size and stability. In the case of your father, Mr Garden, there is no doubt that his personality, and that alone, kept it as large as it was at the time of his death. I am afraid that there is a possibility that the size of the practice may decline abruptly, now that people can no longer rely upon your father’s attentions. That means, of course, that we must try to effect a sale as quickly as possible.’