“I did not say that. Yes, slap Sahara twice, hard. But I said she is doing a silly thing. Now, I am silly, but I hardly ever do a silly thing. Yes, come in. It must be Frank. Sunningdale never knocks, and nobody else ever comes in.” Frank appeared at the door. “I was sent for,” he said, apologetically. “Ah, Martin.” That rang true. “You are her brother,” was behind it, and the romantic touch did not escape, though it rather irritated, Lady Sunningdale. Personally, she disliked romance on the general grounds that in real life it was old-fashioned. To her the two completely satisfactory methods of expression were melodrama and farce. And Frank’s greeting to Martin, the hand on the shoulder, the linked arm, was all romantic, and just a little tiresome. “Frank, what have you been doing with yourself all day?” she cried. “I have not set eyes on you. But, of course, if you do prefer golf and Chinese labour to my inspiring conversation---- Yes, help yourself to some tea, and all the muffin there is.” But Frank still lingered by Martin. “How is she?” he said. “Is all well? Any message for me? No, of course there can’t be. She meant that. But she is well?” He sat down on the foot of the rose-coloured bed. “Dear lady,” he said, “I have done both. I went out playing golf with a colonial secretary, I think, and we talked about fiscal problems. Then I drove off into the bushes and lost the ball. So I said, ‘Will the price of golf balls go up?’ Then he drove into the bushes, too, and he said, ‘I expect so. So we will not look for them for a year. They will then be more valuable than they are now, but will require painting.’ Lucky golf balls! The longer most of us live the less valuable we become.” Lady Sunningdale rather resented this. “The older people become the more paint they want,” she said, “but the other is absolutely untrue. Until people are of a certain age they are of no value at all. I hate boys and girls. You only just escape, Martin; and I don’t think you would unless you could play like an elderly person. Young people want airing; they want to be out in the world for a time to get ripe. Tact, now,--tact and good temper are quite the only gifts worth having, and tact is entirely an acquired quality. Until all your edges are rubbed down, you cannot have tact. People with edges are always putting their elbows into others, instead of rolling along comfortably. You have no tact, Martin, and Helen, it appears, has less.” Frank held up an appealing hand. “Ah, please, Lady Sunningdale,” he said.