As I told you they would, half the women have changed their frocks. Mrs. Lacey is a pink hollyhock now, of which her daughters seem cuttings, and her hat is a sort of pink straw _képi_, trimmed with flowers that resemble virginia stock. She sits at the end of one arm of the T, with her back to the window. Near her is Mrs. Briggs, in stamped electric-blue velvet--her forearms, on which bracelets shiver, are as uniform in contour from whatever point you look at them as if they had been turned in a lathe. The Misses June and Wy also wear bracelets, from which depend bundles of sixpences, a sixpence for each of their birthdays, sixteen for Wiggie, fourteen for June. John Willie is lunching with Percy Briggs to-day, who lunched with him yesterday. Next to his chair is an empty one. It is Mrs. Maynard's, who has not come down yet. Then comes Val Clayton. Over all, with his napkin tucked into his collar as if he had prepared, not for a lunch, but for a shave, Mr. Morrell presides. For some reason or other, lunch always begins a little stiffly; but they unbend as they go on. At present Raymond Briggs cannot get away from the subject of the newspapers and their unaccountable lateness. "Can't understand it," he says for the fifth or sixth time. "And they were late last Wednesday--no, Thursday--no, I was right, it was Wednesday." "Was it Wednesday?" "Yes, the day it looked like rain; you remember?" "Ah, yes; the day it cleared up again." "All but a drop or two--nothing to hurt----" A pause. "Well, I don't suppose there's anything in them." "Speaking for myself, I don't care a button. I don't want to see the newspapers. 'No letters, no newspapers,' I always say when I go away." "A real country holiday, eh?" "Change and rest--those are the great things." "You're right. Complete change. No trouble about how you dress nor what you eat. That's the best of this place." "Still, if the newspapers are coming we may as well know when they are coming." "They ought to have a man, not that young boy." "Hugh Morgan?" "Is that his name? There are so many Morgans." "Common Welsh name." "Met another boy, I expect." "Boys are all alike." "Not a pin to choose among 'em." "Wish I was behind him with a stick for all that." "Another glass of wine, Mr. Ashton?" ... Then there enters with a little commotion, and trips half running to the empty chair between John Willie Garden and Val Clayton, Mrs. Maynard. She wears a big black hat swathed in black tulle, and her dress is of black lace, with close sleeves that reach to the middle knuckles of her taper fingers. She shakes out the mitre of her napkin and breaks forth to Val as she settles in her chair. "My horrid hair!" she pouts; "it always takes me three-quarters of an hour! Really, I shall have to stop bathing, but I do love it so. It seems a kind of fate; I always have to give up the things I love!"