The ladies gathered in a little phalanx round the carriage window. They always felt this departure of Emmy Maradick’s; every year it was the same. Epsom wasn’t a bit the same place whilst she was away, and they really couldn’t see why she should go away at all. Epsom was at its very nicest in August, and that was the month of the year when she could be most useful. Everyone gave their tennis-parties then; and there were those charming little summer dances, and there was no garden in Epsom like the Maradicks’! Besides, they liked her for herself. Things always seemed to go so well when she was there, she had such a—what was the word?—a French phrase—_savoire-vivre_ or _savoir-faire_—yes, it really was a pity. “We shall miss you, dear.” This from Mrs. Mackintosh. “That’s sweet of you, Katie darling. And I shall miss all of you, ever so much. And a hotel’s never the same thing, is it? And the garden’s just beginning to look lovely. You’ll go in, once or twice, won’t you, Louie, and see that things are all right? Of course they ought to be; but you never can tell, with quite a new gardener, too. I think he’s steady enough—at least, he had excellent testimonials, and James heard from Mr. Templeton, where he was before, you know, that he was quite a reliable man; but you know what it is when one’s away, how everything seems to go——Oh! no, it’s all right, Mr. Craddock, I don’t think it’s going just yet. Sit down, Annie dear, and don’t lean against the door.” The ladies then passed before the door, one after another, delivered their little messages, and lined up on the other side. Thus Mrs. Mackintosh— “Well, dear, I _do_ hope you have the rippingest time. I’m sure you deserve it after that old bazaar—all the worry——” And Mrs. Martin Fraser— “Mind, a postcard, dear—when you get there—just a line. We shall all so want to know.” And Louie Denis— “Darling, don’t forget the sketch you promised. I shall have a frame all ready—waiting.” And Maggie Crowder— “I hope it will be fine, dear—such a nuisance if it’s wet; and then there’s our tennis dance next week, it won’t be a bit the same thing if——” Lastly the Dorrington girls together— “Dear Mrs. Maradick—good-bye—ripping—awfully sorry——” the rest lost in nervous laughter. And then began that last dreadful minute when you do so wish in spite of yourself that the train would go. You have said your last words, you have given your last embrace, and you stare passionately down the platform hoping for that final whistle and the splendid waving of a green flag. At last it came. The ladies surged forward in a body and waved their handkerchiefs. Mrs. Maradick leaned for a moment out of the window and waved hers. Tom Craddock shouted something hoarsely about James that no one could hear, and Epsom was finally bereft of its glory.