“Oh,” said Dr. Ackrington at last. “And what did your mother say?”

Barbara pulled a clown’s grimace. “She reproved me,” she said in a sepulchral serio-comedy voice.

“Well, don’t make faces at me,” snapped her uncle.

A window in the Claires’ wing was thrown open, and between the curtains there appeared a vague pink face garnished with a faded moustache, and topped by a thatch of white hair.

“Hullo, James,” said the face crossly. “Lunch. What’s your mother doing, Ba? Where’s Simon?”

“She’s coming, Daddy. We’re all coming. Simon!” screamed Barbara.

Mrs. Claire, enveloped in a dark red flannel dressing gown, came panting up from the pools, and hurried into the house.

“Aren’t we going to have any lunch?” Colonel Claire asked bitterly.

“Of course we are,” said Barbara. “Why don’t you begin, Daddy, if you’re in such a hurry? Come on, Uncle James.”

As they went indoors, a young man came round the house and slouched in behind them. He was tall, big-boned, and sandy-haired, with a jutting under lip.

“Hullo, Sim,” said Barbara. “Lunch.”

“Righto.”

“How’s the Morse code this morning?”

“Going good,” said Simon.

Dr. Ackrington instantly turned on him. “Is there any creditable reason why you should not say ‘going well’?” he demanded.

“Huh!” said Simon.

He trailed behind them into the dining-room and they took their places at a long table where Colonel Claire was already seated.

“We won’t wait for your mother,” said Colonel Claire, folding his hands over his abdomen. “For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful. Huia!”