At ten minutes to four George and Monica were approaching the main road at Duffley, when a subdued shriek on their right engaged their attention. George, avoiding the ditch by a millimetre as the car swerved violently on seeing the head of one of its mistresses protruding from the middle of a corrugated roof, came to a standstill. There are times when it is singularly useful to be a man. It took George just ninety-eight seconds to swing himself up on to the tool-house roof and rip off the obstinate strip of corrugated iron, and another twenty-three to haul Dora up by her wrists between the rafters. Looking down at the latter afterwards, George wondered how the deuce he had been able to squeeze her between them. So did Dora. She got into the car a little pensively. Monica, who had been torn between the respect due to a real actress on the real stage and a violent inclination to begin laughing hopelessly and go on laughing for ever, just managed to conquer her desires. As George was steering the car through his own gates a few moments later, he remarked very airily: “By the way, Dawks, you needn’t bother about Monica. Er—knowing things, you know. I told her.” “It certainly does save a lot of trouble,” Dora agreed. “I think it’s a frightful rag,” Monica giggled. “Do you? But you haven’t been spending the morning in Mr. Foster’s tool-shed. Well, I must fly. We’ve just time for a cup of tea before we start, George.” George looked at Monica a little wistfully. “I suppose you’d really better not go by train?” he asked his sister. “Certainly not,” said Dora, who much preferred cars to trains. George reddened somewhat and bent to fumble quite unnecessarily with the petrol-tap. “Wouldn’t care to come up, too, Monica?” he remarked gruffly. “Keep me company coming back and all that? Bit too late for you, eh?” “Oh, George, you angel! I’d love it. I was simply longing to be asked, but thought you wouldn’t want me as well as the others.” George’s red area extended to the back of his ears. “What rot. Why ever not? That’s settled then. Good.” He caught his sister’s quivering eye and looked hastily away. George hated being winked at when he was red. Not unintrigued, Dora ran into the house. Between the first and last of the dozen odd steps she took she had considered Monica’s advisability as a wife for George, decided whole-heartedly in favour of her, got them engaged, helped them choose their furniture, married them, despatched them on their honeymoon, and gone to dinner with Pat with them a year later. Women have nimble minds. Twenty minutes later the car and its complement departed. Guy walked back to Dell Cottage with a distinctly flat feeling. True, Mr. Foster was still in its cellars, which was a pleasing thought; but a joke loses most of its savour when there is nobody to share it with. Goodness knew when Cynthia would be back, and it was obviously impossible to say anything to Alan.