Inserting the broken poppy into a bowl of flowers in a seemingly haphazard manner which yet in no way impaired the symmetry of the bowl, she passed on into a sunny drawing-room, where, cut in the side-wall, a glass-panelled door gave access to the rose-garden. “Of course, we ought to have had this door bricked up,” she remarked. “Only I do rather like being able to step out of the room into the garden, and you don't see it from the front of the house. The Brotherlees used to have a conservatory beyond it, you remember.”

“One of my more treasured childhood's memories,” said Gavin. “It had a warm, nostalgic smell, and spiky green things. I loved it!”

“Cacti,” supplied Mrs. Haswell. “Children always love the most dreadful things. I remember despairing of Elizabeth when she was three years old, and went into raptures over a bed of scarlet geraniums and blue lobelias. She outgrew it, of course. She and her husband have just moved into a house in Chelsea. I hope they won't turn it damp, but she's done wonders with her window-boxes. Charles and Abigail Dearham are playing the Lindales, but the Vicar, and Mavis Warrenby have arrived, so we shall be able to get up a second set.”

“Splendid!” said the Major.

Mr. Drybeck said nothing. He foresaw that it would fall to his lot to have Mavis Warrenby for his partner, since he was a better player than the Vicar or the Major, and the prospect depressed him.

“Your husband not playing, Mrs. Haswell?” asked the Major.

“No, so unfortunate! Henry has had to go over to Woodhall,” replied Mrs. Haswell.

Mr. Drybeck's depression became tinged by a slight feeling of affront. Henry Haswell was the only tennis-player in Thornden whom he considered worthy of his steel, and he had been looking forward to a game with him.

They had by this time come within sight of the two hard-courts which Mrs.