"Now those people-" said Miss Prescott, lowering her voice quite unnecessarily since the steel band easily drowned it. "Yes, I was going to ask you about them."

"They were here last year. They spend three months every year in the West Indies, going round the different islands. The tall thin man is Colonel Hillingdon and the dark woman is his wife-they are botanists. The other two, Mr. and Mrs. Gregory Dyson-they're American. He writes on butterflies, I believe. And all of them are interested in birds."

"So nice for people to have open-air hobbies," said Canon Prescott genially. "I don't think they'd like to hear you call it hobbies, Jeremy," said his sister. "They have articles printed in the National Geographic and the Royal Horticultural Journal. They take themselves very seriously."

A loud outburst of laughter came from the table they had been observing. It was loud enough to overcome the steel band. Gregory Dyson was leaning back in his chair and thumping the table, his wife was protesting, and Major Palgrave emptied his glass and seemed to be applauding. They hardly qualified for the moment as people who took themselves seriously.

"Major Palgrave should not drink so much," said Miss Prescott acidly. "He has blood pressure."

A fresh supply of Planters Punches were brought to the table. "It's so nice to get people sorted out," said Miss Marple. "When I met them this afternoon I wasn't sure which was married to which."

There was a slight pause. Miss Prescott coughed a small dry cough, and said: "Well, as to that-"

"Joan," said the Canon in an admonitory voice. "Perhaps it would be wise to say no more."

"Really, Jeremy, I wasn't going to say anything. Only that last year, for some reason or other-I really don't know why-we got the idea that Mrs. Dyson was Mrs. Hillingdon until someone told us she wasn't."