“I don't sit in a chair and drink wine all day,” his sister retorted, querulously. “And that jazz band downstairs is simply appalling—I can feel my ear-drums quiver whenever it starts playing.” “It amuses the children, at least. I haven't heard Stanley or Cressida complaining about it yet; and they seem to dance most of the time in the evenings.” “So like the younger generation! They get married—and they dance. And that's almost all you can say about them.” “Oh, no. Let's be fair,” her brother corrected her mildly. “They both play bridge a good deal; and Cressida's not bad at golf. I can't say, taking her over all, that I'm ashamed of her as a niece. And Stanley's a great improvement on her first husband—that fellow Staveley.” Miss Fordingbridge made a gesture of irritation. “Oh, of course, everything's simply splendid, by your way of it. A fascinating niece, a nice-looking nephew-in-law, and a wonderful hotel to live in for a month or so; what more could one want? The only thing I can't understand is what this family party is doing in an hotel just now, when we've got Foxhills standing empty almost within a stone's-throw. You know how I hate hotels; and yet you won't reopen Foxhills and let us live there. What's the use in coming to Lynden Sands at all, if we don't stay at our own house and get privacy at least?” Her brother's brows contracted slightly. “Foxhills isn't going to be reopened. You know quite well the size of staff you'd need to run it properly; and I don't propose to pay on that scale merely in order to stay at Foxhills for a month or so and then shut it up again. Besides, Jay, this new golf-course has changed things a bit. I'm trying to let Foxhills; and if I got a tenant, we might have to clear out of the place before we'd got well settled down in it. This hotel and the new course between them are going to make Lynden Sands more popular before long. There's a fair chance of getting Foxhills leased.” Miss Fordingbridge was manifestly taken aback by this information. “You're trying to let Foxhills—our old house? Why, it isn't yours to let! It belongs to Derek.” Paul Fordingbridge seemed to be flicked on the raw. There was a certain asperity in his tone as he replied. “Whether it _belongs_ to Derek or merely _belonged_ to Derek is an open question. He hasn't turned up to let us decide the point one way or the other.” He glanced at his sister's face and apparently read something in her expression, for he continued with a faint rasp in his tone. “I thought I'd made the position clear enough to you already, but, as you don't seem to grasp it even yet, I'll go over it once more. But this must be the last time, Jay. I'm really tired of making the thing clear to you when you evidently won't take the trouble to understand how I'm placed.” He paused for a moment, as though to put his facts in order before stating his case.