By lunch time on Saturday she was, as she herself put it, "thoroughly issasperated" with things in general. Never for one moment were we left alone. Something was arranged for every minute. The Staceys believed in organised games; "innocent pastimes varied by intellectual pursuits" was Uncle Edward’s curriculum, and it would have been excellent had there been rather less of the innocent pastimes. Until quite recently the Staceys had lived in towns, and they had yet to learn that in the country children can find their own amusements with the greatest ease: that Dame Nature is an excellent M.C., and that the queer plays children invent for themselves are far more entrancing than any game that is played by rule. Fiammetta looked quite pale and exhausted after a morning spent in rounders, clumps, golf croquet (she rested and watched us during this, as she firmly refused to play, but Fräulein sat with her lest she should be dull), spelling-game, Puss-in-the-corner, and "Earth, air, fire, and water." Observe the judicious admixture of active exercise and mental gymnastics. While I was washing my hands for lunch she came into my room, shut my door—I’m afraid she banged it—locked it, and stood with her back against it. "Janey, I want to go home," she announced. "I want to go back to the Court this afternoon. Will you ask them to drive us?" "I can’t," I exclaimed, aghast. "It would never do; we’ve been asked till Monday, and we must stay here till then." "Why should I stay if I hate it?" "Because it’s all arranged; they’d never forgive us if we went home; it would be so rude." She began to cry. "I’m so tired," she sobbed, "sick and tired of silly games that one can make so many mistakes in, and they keep showing you all the time. Janey, I can’t go on with it." I was horror-struck. The luncheon gong would ring in two minutes, and if Fiammetta was tear-stained there would be inquiries. I flew to her with the towel in my wet hands, and put my arms round her. "Don’t cry!" I besought her, "if you do, they’ll think I’ve been pinching you, or something," and she began to laugh. She dried her eyes on the towel and then said irrelevantly, "Paul didn’t come. Why isn’t he here, too, to help bear it?" "He wasn’t asked," I said. "He doesn’t do here at all." "I don’t do either," she protested; "it’s a shame. When I think of Paul wandering about in that dear garden, _doing exactly what he likes_, I could scream." "For mercy’s sake don’t," I said. "They’d want to know why, and _then_ what could you say?" "Janey, after we’ve gone to bed and everything’s quiet, may I come in and sleep with you? I wouldn’t be so miserable then." "It’s a very little bed," I said dubiously, "and you’re an awful fidget. I hear you in our room at home. You go round and round like a dog." "I’ll bring my bedclothes and sleep on the floor, and go back very early in the morning, then they’ll never know."