He closed his eyes for a moment and then turned his head to look at his cousin.

“So Decima Moore is still here,” he said.

Parish smiled. “Very much so. But you’ll have to watch your step, Luke.”

“Why?”

“There’s an engagement in the offing.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Decima and Will Pomeroy.”

Watchman sat up.

“I don’t believe you,” he said sharply.

“Well — why not?”

“Good Lord! A politically minded pot-boy.”

“Actually they’re the same class,” Parish murmured.

“Perhaps; but she’s not of it.”

“All the same—”

Watchman grimaced.

“She’s a little fool,” he said, “but you may be right,” and lay back again. “Oh well!” he added comfortably.

There was a moment’s silence.

“There’s another female here,” said Parish, and grinned.

“Another? Who?”

“Norman’s girl-friend, of course. My oath!”

“Why? What’s she like? Why are you grinning away like a Cheshire cat, Seb?”

“My dear soul,” said Parish, “if I could get that woman to walk on the boards every morning and do her stuff exactly as she does it here — well, of course! I’d go into management and die a millionaire.”

“Who is she?”

“She’s the Honourable Violet Darragh. She waters.”

“She what?”

“She does water-colours. Wait till you hear Norman on Violet.”

“Is she a nuisance?” asked Watchman apprehensively.

“Not exactly. Well, in a way. Pure joy to me. Wait till you meet her.”

Parish would say no more about Miss Darragh, and Watchman, only mildly interested, relapsed into a pleasant doze.