``He'd give him to some other little boy. Anyway that's got nothing to do with it. Now run off and say you're sorry to nanny.''

At the door John said, ``It's all right about riding on Monday, isn't it? You did say `tomorrow.' ``

``Yes, I suppose so.''

``Hooray. Thunderclap went very well today. We jumped a big post and rails. She refused to first time but went like a bird after that.''

``Didn't you come off?''

``Yes, once. It wasn't Thunderclap's fault. I just opened my bloody legs and cut an arser.''

``How did the lecture go?'' Brenda asked.

``Bad. Rotten bad.''

``The trouble is that nanny's jealous of Ben.''

``I'm not sure we shan't both be soon.''

They lunched at a small, round table in the centre of the dining hall. There seemed no way of securing an even temperature in that room; even when one side was painfully roasting in the direct blaze of the open hearth, the other was numbed by a dozen converging drafts. Brenda had tried numerous experiments with screens and a portable, electric radiator, but with little success. Even today, mild elsewhere, it was bitterly cold in the dining hall.

Although they were both in good health and of unexceptional figure, Tony and Brenda were on a diet. It gave an interest to their meals and saved them from the two uncivilized extremes of which solitary diners are in danger--absorbing gluttony or an irregular regimen of scrambled eggs and raw beef sandwiches. Under their present system they denied themselves the combination of protein and starch at the same meal. They had a printed catalogue telling them which foods contained protein and which starch. Most normal dishes seemed to be compact of both so that it was fun for Tony and Brenda to choose the menu. Usually it ended by their declaring some food `joker.'

``I'm sure it does me a great deal of good.''