Georgie sat in the draught--it was very hot to-day--until the auburn mixture dried. He knew that Daisy Quantock and Robert were playing clock-golf on the other side of his garden paling, for their voices had been very audible. Daisy had not been weeding much lately but had taken to golf, and since all the authorities said that matches were entirely won or lost on the putting-green, she with her usual wisdom devoted herself to the winning factor in the game. Presently she would learn to drive and approach and niblick and that sort of thing, and then they would see.... She wondered how good Miss Wethered really was. Georgie, now dry, tripped out into the garden and shouted “May I come in?” That meant, of course, might he look over the garden paling and talk. Daisy missed a very short putt, owing to the interruption. “Yes, do,” she said icily. “I supposed you would give me that, Robert.” “You supposed wrong,” said Robert, who was now two up. Georgie stepped on a beautiful pansy. “Lucia’s coming down to-morrow,” he said. Daisy dropped her putter. “No!” she exclaimed. “And Pepino,” went on Georgie. “She says she’s very tired.” “All those duchesses,” said Daisy. Robert Alton’s cartoon had been reproduced in an illustrated weekly, but Riseholme up to this moment had been absolutely silent about it. It was beneath notice. “And she’s asked me to dinner to-morrow,” said Georgie. “So she’s not bringing down a party?” said Daisy. “I don’t know,” remarked Robert, “if you are going on putting, or if you give me the match.” “Pouf!” said Daisy, just like that. “But tired, Georgie? What does that mean?” “I don’t know,” said Georgie, “but that’s what she said.” “It means something else,” said Daisy, “I can’t tell you what, but it doesn’t mean that. I suppose you’ve said you’re engaged.” “No I haven’t,” said Georgie. De Vere came out from the house. In this dry weather her heels made no indentations on the lawn. “Trunk-call, ma’am,” she said to Daisy. “These tiresome interruptions,” said Daisy, hurrying indoors with great alacrity. Georgie lingered. He longed to know what the trunk-call was, and was determined to remain with his head on the top of the paling till Daisy came back. So he made conversation. “Your lawn is better than mine,” he said pleasantly to Robert. Robert was cross at this delay. “That’s not saying much,” he observed. “I can’t say any more,” said Georgie, rather nettled. “And there’s the leather-jacket grub I see has begun on yours. I daresay there won’t be a blade of grass left presently.” Robert changed the conversation: there were bare patches. “The Museum insurance,” he said. “I got the fire-policy this morning. The contents are the property of the four trustees, me and you and Daisy and Mrs. Boucher. The building is Colonel Boucher’s, and that’s insured separately. If you had a spark of enterprise about you, you would take a match, set light to the mittens, and hope for the best.”