“And you a riparian owner!” said Charles, shocked. “There used to be one Catchment Board for the Rushy, here, and another one for the Crail, which for your better information is—”

“All right!” said Kenelm, grinning at him. “I know where the Crail runs! I also know that two old Catchment Boards have become one new River Board. What I meant was, what about the Crail half of the Board? Haven't they got a candidate for the solicitor's job?”

“The man who used to look after their interests has retired,” said the Squire shortly. “You'd better read the correspondence. I'll show it to you, if you like to— No, now I come to think of it, I sent it on to you, Gavin. I wish you'd let me have it back.”

He turned away, and began to talk to his hostess. Another game was soon arranged, he and Mrs. Cliburn taking the places of Charles and Abigail, who went off with Gavin and Mrs. Haswell to engage in a light-hearted game of Crazy Croquet, which Charles insisted was the only sort of croquet he understood.

Tea was served under the elm tree on the lawn to the east of the house, the tennis-players joining the party when their respective sets ended, and hailing with acclaim the discovery that Mrs. Haswell, always a perfect hostess, had provided iced coffee for their refreshment.

Mrs. Ainstable arrived at about half-past five, leaving her car in the drive, and walking through the rose-covered archway that led to the eastern lawn. Mrs. Haswell rose at once, and went to meet her; and she said, in her rather high-pitched inconsequent voice: “I do apologise! Don't say I'm too late to be given tea: I should burst into tears. Isn't it hot? How lovely the garden's looking! We've got greenfly.”