The two elder men waited for him to come up with them. “Coming to The Cedars?” the Major asked.

“Yes, do you think it odd of me? I expect I shall play croquet. Mrs. Haswell is sure to ask me to: she has such a kind disposition!”

“A game of considerable skill,” remarked Mr. Drybeck. “It has gone out of fashion of late years, but in my young days it was very popular. I remember my grandmother telling me, however, that when it first came in it was frowned on as being fast, and leading to flirtation. Amusing!”

“I can't flirt with Mrs. Haswell: she regards me with a motherly eye. Or with Mavis: her eyes glisten, and she knows I don't mean the dreadful things I say. Besides, her uncle might take it to mean encouragement of himself, and that would never do. He would force his way into my house, and I'm resolved that it shall be the one threshold he can't cross. My brother used to say that to me, but he didn't mean it. The likeness between us was only skin-deep, after all.”

“Oh, yours won't be the only one!” said the Major, chuckling a little. “Eh, Drybeck?”

“No, you're quite mistaken, Major. Warrenby will cross Mr. Drybeck's threshold by a ruse. He will simulate a fit at his gate, or beg to be allowed to come in to recover from an attack of giddiness, and Mr. Drybeck will be too polite to refuse him. That's the worst of having been born in the last century: you're always being frustrated by your upbringing.”

“I trust,” said Mr. Drybeck frostily, “that I should not refuse admittance to anyone in such need of assistance as you indicate.”

“You mean you trust you won't be at home when it happens, because your fear of appearing to the rest of us to be callous might prove stronger than your disinclination to render the least assistance to Warrenby.”