“No, Harold-not here!” I heard, and recognised the voice immediately. It was that of Mrs. Witherington-Carey whose husband had been newly summoned to his regiment. Of less than fully-matured years, she was about thirty-seven, as I fancied-a brunette of some distinct charm.

Crouching down behind the railings of the bannisters then, I saw her. There was it seemed a playful chase going on. A hand seized her arm as she made apparently to flee. Her long dark hair appeared already tousled. There then came into my view the owner of that hand. It was my uncle. His evening jacket, tie and collar had been cast off and his braces dangled from his waist. In a moment, with no more pretence of flight, his victim was seized and thrust back over the table.

“Harold, no-please!” she begged, though I noticed that in so pleading her hands gripped his arms in such a manner that she appeared not to be thrusting away.

“Sweet devil, it has been too long,” he replied. Bending over her so that her feet skittered on the carpet, her shoulders laid well back upon the polished surface of the table, he accorded her a kiss of such passion that I wondered in my naivety at their capacity for taking a breath, so long did their lips merge. Then, rising, he drew her up with him.

“As before, Helen-you must!”

In my comparative innocence, I did not then note the state of his breeches which in fact were thrust out alarmingly by the most monstrous protrusion.

“You hurt me!” came the lady's response, though I divined the words to be an invitation rather than a refusal, so coyly were they spoken. So also, apparently, thought my uncle for without further ado he spun her about and groped up her skirt at the same time.