The last week in July saw a great re-union. The Vernleys had taken a house at Mablethorpe, on the East Coast, for the summer. Its chief attraction was that it possessed no distractions. There were neither pierrots, promenades, theatres, nor any of the other feeble forms of amusement with which people in search of a holiday disguise their boredom. And to increase the solitude of their retreat, the Vernleys' house was a mile out of the village, snugly ensconced behind the high sand dunes with which early settlers had fought the encroaching sea, and kept for themselves a lowland intersected with dykes and devoid of trees. Bobbie grumbled all day long at the obvious insanity of his people in choosing such a place. A lover of the flesh pots, he contemplated the house and surrounding country with supreme disgust. His disapproval was obviously artificial, however. They had brought their horses with them, with which to explore the Lincolnshire lanes. A short car journey took them to Skegness, "which is Mablethorpe, only more so," commented Bobbie. Kitty found great excitement in riding her mare down the sand dunes, until the authorities protested against the breaking down of the sky line and Mablethorpe's one claim to singularity. But the tennis and the bathing were without fault. Even Bobbie was silent upon these, and his frequent indulgence in both betrayed almost enthusiasm. Mrs. Vernley had chosen the place for the air, although Mr. Vernley swore that it was because no friends would come there to visit them. He was consoled somewhat by the discovery of a radical parson in a near village, who knew all the quaint little inns and the merits of beer. For the greater part of the day they all lived in bathing costumes since, as Marsh expressed it, the weather was hot and as perversely pleasant as the landscape. London was with them, Lindon dwelling in a wonderful July heaven, for diplomatic John had contrived for an invitation to be sent to Miss Topham, whose pleasure coincided with the business of painting Kitty on horseback. Their open delight in each other supplemented the mirth of the party, though perhaps John felt lonelier in contrast, for Muriel was visiting the home of a school friend at Liége until the second week in August. John's sky had just a little shadow in it, but with Marsh and Vernley at hand, there were no silences for self-commiseration. They breakfasted at seven, with the sea wind blowing through the room. It was Mr. Vernley's great complaint that there were neither letters nor newspapers until eleven o'clock. A great strike was threatened, and he watched it carefully day by day. "Have the silly beggars struck yet?" asked Bobbie, one morning as they all lay, after bathing, on the slopes of the sand dunes facing the sea and the wide flat beach. As he asked the question he was industriously trickling sand down John's bare leg.