The tide came up slowly. There was a shimmer of heat over the sea and no breeze. Esther Field sat on a cushion in the shade of the beach hut and knitted diligently. Since this year she was giving shawls as Christmas presents to the three or four old pensioners whom she had inherited from Penderel Field’s mother, and since this particular shawl was almost complete and of a lively shade of crimson, she both looked, and was, extremely hot. Billows of red wool flowed from her in every direction.

“Extra big,” she was explaining to Lady Castleton who was sharing the patch of shade. “For old Mrs. Mount. She gets larger every year and is really quite proud of it, so of course it wouldn’t be the least bit of good my giving her anything skimpy.”

They had been at school together thirty years ago, when Adela Castleton was Adela Thane with a brother in the Army whose occasional visits provided the other girls with a thrill. They had neither of them changed very much. Esther had always been large, and kind, and dowdy, and Adela had been beautiful. She had kept her looks wonderfully. The celebrated profile, the celebrated complexion, the celebrated figure were all still intact. If they had become a little fixed, a little-how shall one say, stereotyped-the effect was sufficiently imposing. She made Esther Field look like a rag-bag, and Maisie Trevor of that out-dated smartness which is so much worse than just being dowdy. Her own dark blue linen was exactly right, and so was the simple shady hat which had probably cost more than Esther had ever paid for one in her life. She glanced at the billowing shawl and said,

“Really, Esther-I don’t know how you can! Do put that ghastly thing away and give us all a chance to get cool! You don’t have to think about Christmas now!”