She had dined at most of the Embassies in Europe; delightful little anecdotes, pointed with the witty brevity of a French phrase, scintillated in her talk. Yes, she had met "Anatole France," and told a story of his courtly grumpiness; she had crossed the Atlantic with Paderewski, who had played for her his "Romance," on the evening of its composition, played it in the lonely drawing-room while passengers were at dinner, with such elegance, delicacy of touch and strength of tone. Had she read "Mr. Polly?" asked John. That reminded her immediately; they saw Mr. Wells in a Kent house writing all the morning, playing hockey all the afternoon, and always the busy little man in a blue serge suit, pouring out a medley of history, theology, romance and hard-headed business talk. There was a flashlight of Rodin in his palatial studio. "Madame has beautiful hands--they must be immortalised," and one saw the robust personality of Roosevelt at a small dinner party at the Plaza, New York, with a later snapshot of him speechmaking from the platform of a Pullman at a wayside station in Indiana. "A lovable man--he made that speech just to enable fifty country school children to say in after life that they had heard the President." What a luncheon hour, with Tod cross-questioning, Muriel laughing, Vernley dumb, Mr. Vernley corroborating and Mrs. Vernley beseeching her guest to get something to eat; and whenever a break in the conversation came, Mr. Ribble restarted the flow of anecdote with a query or a scholarly footnote. John would have wished that luncheon hour to last for ever, but before they had risen from the table Tod had slipped away and a few minutes later the car was purring in the drive. "Come along, sir," he called as they rose. "Not yet, not yet, Tod," protested Mr. Vernley. "Yes, now--if you go upstairs for a nap, there'll be no golf this afternoon. Mrs. Graham is coming too." "But Tod, I have no clubs," protested Mrs. Graham. "I have--the car's waiting now. Are you coming, Mr. Ribble?" "No thank you, my boy--I am still ink-bound. Muriel has promised me a nice cup of tea in the study at four o'clock, and we have Mr. Crimp coming, I believe." "That's why we're going." "Tod, dear!" protested his mother. "How rude you are!" "I loathe the fellow!" "And you have no reason, dear." "Loathing," said Mrs. Graham, "is perhaps the safest of all feelings, it relies more on instinct than intellect." "And what are you children going to do?" asked Mr. Vernley. "Children, pater!" protested Bobbie. "We are having a double on the lawn. Thomson says it will be quite good playing to-day. He cut it this morning," said Muriel. "Well, when we return, if you've any steam left in you, Mrs. Graham and I will take on the winners." "Good!" cried Bobbie. "Come on, Scissors, let's change." In his room, Vernley found John a pair of flannel trousers. There was nine inches to spare round the waist, and a serious gap above the ankles.