PAUL FORDINGBRIDGE, with a faintly reproachful glance at his sister, interrupted his study of the financial page of The Times and put the paper down on his knee. Deliberately he removed his reading-glasses; replaced them by his ordinary spectacles; and then turned to the restless figure at the window of the private sitting-room.<br />&ldquo;Well, Jay, you seem to have something on your mind. Would it be too much to ask you to say it&mdash; whatever it is&mdash; and then let me read my paper comfortably? One can&rsquo;t give one&rsquo;s mind to a thing when there&rsquo;s a person at one&rsquo;s elbow obviously ready to break out into conversation at any moment.&rdquo;<br />Miss Fordingbridge had spent the best part of half a century in regretting her father&rsquo;s admiration for Herrick. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t see myself as Julia of the Nightpiece,&rdquo; she complained with a faint parade of modesty; and it was at her own wish that the hated name had been abbreviated to an initial in family talk.<br />At the sound of her brother&rsquo;s voice she turned away from the sea-view.